The Thief Dilemma
by Locker51
Summary: Megan and Daphne thought Thief was just a game. They thought that they could always restart the level and try again. But something went terribly wrong, and now, there is no turning back.
1. In Which Daphne and Megan Meet a Thief

               "Who's there?" The figure in the shadows asked in a deep, gruff voice. The arrow, half pulled on the tense string, hung poised in the air. The black hood hid his eyes, but his clean-shaven jaw was set. He shifted, growing impatient for a response. "Speak up."

               The two shadows in the corner shifted nervously. One stood up. "We- we sort of… fell… into the game…"

               The thief's eyes narrowed. "What game?"

               Inching into a standing position, the second shadow whispered to the first, "Megan… I don't think this is such a good idea…"

               "Shut up," the first shadow hissed back, "I'm _thinking_, okay?"

               With caution, the thief moved his hand slowly to an arrow marked by a red feather in his quiver. His gloved fingers felt the texture of the fletch at last, and with a deft, lightning fast move, the first arrow fell to the floor, instantly replaced by the brilliant blazing fire arrow. Light from the tip cascaded into the room, showing everything. The thief's eyes widened. "Little girls? Here?"

               The first girl, with her glasses glinting with reflected light, squared her shoulders. "Excuse me?_ Little girls?_ I'm seventeen for your information!"

               The thief lowered the arrow, but continued to stare in amazement, not so much at the two girls standing before him, but at the clothes they were wearing. They were so… so… bizarre… The bolder of the two wore a shirt that looked somewhat like a very short tunic, but with no belt, although she wore some sort of trousers underneath it. The tunic was a dark blue, almost black, with some sort of odd symbols on the front in a blood red. The trousers were fascinating as well, made of what appeared to be a very thick, coarse fabric, nothing like cotton or wool. They were a navy blue, and worn at the knees, so that in a few spots, the girl's bare knees were visible. 

               The other girl wore similarly odd clothing, though her shirt on top seemed to be of a bit more elastic quality. Over that, the second girl was wearing a stiffer fabric shirt, with little red flowers splayed across it in no particular pattern. It was unbuttoned, and hung open loosely. Her trousers were not of the same fabric as the first girl's were, but of a rather tan, though not remotely hide-like, cloth. 

               Both looked as if they'd fallen out of- well, the thief couldn't guess where. It was unlike anything he'd ever seen before. He stood up, with a completely puzzled expression on his face. "Who did you say you were?"

               "Um, well," the girl with the dark blue tunic said, shifting a glance at her companion, "I am called Megan of- of Fog's End, and this- this is my-"

               "Sister," the second one hissed.

               "-sister," Megan of Fog's End added slowly, "She is called- um-"

               "Daphne of- Haylin Crossings," Daphne of Haylin Crossings put in with an air of confidence. 

               "Where do you come from?" the thief asked, still looking stunned. "You mentioned- a game, I believe."

               Megan of Fog's End cast a nervous glance at Daphne of Haylin Crossings. "Well, you see- we- we were brought here, accidentally, by- by-"

               "The Trickster!" Daphne put in avidly. Megan cast her a withering glare. 

               "The Trickster!" the thief hissed, "You were brought here to kill me then!"

               "No, no!" Megan insisted, "No, Garrett, you misunderstand. We aren't supposed to be here at all- we got sucked into your game- that's all, we don't know how but-"

               The thief pulled the arrow taunt, watching the two girls with a furious eye down the shaft of the fire arrow. "Who are you to speak about Garrett, the master thief? Speak lively. If I release this arrow you'll be killed instantly."

               The second girl squeaked, and immediately hid behind the first. "Megan! He's going to kill us!"

               "No, he won't," the first said, keeping her eyes right on him, "He's right outside a guard house. I'm surprised you'd even think to pull out a fire arrow so close to a window! You aren't Garrett, are you?"

               The thief cast a quick glance at the window not far from him, extinguishing the arrow immediately in his quiver. He moved silently in the shadows to look out onto the street. "The guards are gone!" he whispered, almost to himself. "They've left their posts!" He turned his shadowed face back in the direction where the two girls had stood in full view a moment before. "How do you know such things? How do you know Garrett? Are you thieves as well, then?"

               "Who is he if he's not Garrett!" the voice of the second girl whispered in the dark.

               "I don't know! This is all so confused… Nothing's right… _This_ isn't right! We're not supposed to be in this game at all, Daphne! We're supposed to be at my house, at the computer."

               There was silence for a moment, then something thumped on the stairs below. The unnamed thief turned toward the door. A shadow had fallen over the step. With a silent move, he knocked an arrow and drew the string back to his chin… waiting… alert. Someone outside fumbled with the doorknob clumsily. Finally, the guard threw the door open. The shaft hissed through the air and embedded itself in the guard's chest. He fell as silently as the arrow had flown. A squeak echoed from the corner. 

               "He _killed_ him, Megan!"

               There was a shout downstairs, and the sound of many boots began thudding up the staircase. 

               The thief whirled his cloak about him, and edged onto the windowsill. He was suddenly aware of two figures pressing against him on the side. "What are you doing?" He hissed.

               "You aren't going to leave us here to be killed, are you?" the first girl asked, angrily, but with a hint of fear. 

               "You think it matters to me?" He growled back, "I have to save my own skin!" 

               The guards were getting closer. They were on the second story now. 

               "Listen, we won't tag along with you or anything, but could you at least spare us a rope arrow or a slow-fall potion? Something to make us a little less helpless?"

               "You really are thieves!" he exclaimed. "Fine, I can spare an arrow, but not a potion. You'll have to make do with that."

               "What about your bow? Can we use it?" the second voice asked as the first took the rope arrow from him. 

               "You can't have my bow!" he hissed, "You said you needed an arrow, so I've given you an arrow! I have to go now, I can't wait for you to try and shoot it! You should have thought of that!"

               "Fine, we don't need it," the first hissed back, "Come on, Daphne, let's get out of here."

               The thief rolled his eyes, drawing the flask of blue liquid from his cloak. With a quick swig, he downed the contents, and turned, poised to jump out the window. But he hesitated, watching the two scramble in the attempts to tie the rope and arrow around the pillar of stone separating the two windows.

               "Give it here," he said at last, in frustration, aware that the slow-fall potion would be wearing off any minute. He slung the bow and shot the arrow into the wooden frame circling the building no more than three feet away from the window. "You'll have to jump, but that's all I can do for you. So go! GO!" 

               The first girl looked at the rope, her chest heaving. "It's too far! We'll never be able to jump that!"

               The thief threw up his hands in exasperation. "Then die, alright? There isn't much time, and there aren't any other options unless you plan on fighting your way out bare handed!"

               She swallowed hard. "Alright." Squinting her eyes, as closed as they could be without impairing her sight too badly, she launched herself out of the window, catching the rope with a grunt. "It burns!" she cried.

               "That's why we wear gloves, you idiot! Get down! Now, you," he growled to the girl Daphne, "Jump!"

               The door burst open, and the guards shouted angrily. "He's getting away!"

               "Damn it!" he shouted, wrapping one arm around the girl's waist, and jumping from the sill.

               For a few moments, they seemed as though they were floating slowly down the first story, but suddenly, they heard a noise that resembled something like air being sucked out of a plastic bag, and they began plummeting toward the ground fast. The thief began swearing, as he positioned himself to take the blunt of the fall. They struck the ground hard, not rolling to break the impact. The thief grunted as his back slammed into the hard cobblestone street, and he winced at the shock of pain. 

               The guards' shouts were muffled as they ran back toward the steps in the building. They could hear them coming down the stairs. The girl, Daphne, sat up, wincing at her turned ankle. "Are you okay?" she asked fearfully, casting a quick glance over her shoulder at the thief. He didn't respond. "Megan!" she cried toward the figure leaping off the last few feet of rope. "Megan, I think he's dead!"

               "Is he breathing?" she asked, running over.

               "Yeah- yeah, he is!" 

               "Then he's not dead," Megan groaned as she pulled his arm over her shoulder. 

               "You shouldn't move someone if they've fallen like that!" Daphne said, "He might have broken his back! You could cause more damage!"

               "Shut up! He'll be dead if we don't move him! Come on, let's go!" Half carrying, half dragging, Megan began moving toward the open sewer system that flowed directly past the buildings. Daphne limped after her, casting worried glances back at the door of the building. She could hear the guards coming. 

               With a splash, the three figures landed in the clear, neck-deep water, and moved toward a shadowed area. "The guards won't come down here," Megan whispered, "If we stay put, they'll eventually give up."

               "But what about _him_?" Daphne asked, casting a worried glance at the thief, who's head was barely being kept above the water by Megan's shoulder. 

               "I don't know," for the first time, Megan sounded worried. "Look in his pockets. See if he's got a healing potion."

               Daphne dug around in the long folds of cloth in the cloak, turning up nothing but a small pouch of silver, a flash bomb, and a ring. "No potion," she whispered. 

               "Well, he's got some money- we'll see if we can buy one somewhere…"

               "Or steal one," Daphne added slyly. 

               Megan smirked. "You're getting into the game again."

               Daphne giggled, "So are you, Miss I-can-escape-onto-a-rope-arrow-from-a-window!"

               Although tempted to laugh at the voice in which her friend made fun of her, Megan restrained, as did Daphne. There were voices not far from them. 

               "Come out, Me Taffers!" a thick-witted voice called through the ever-drawing night. "Here now! Here chickie, chickie." 

               "What do we do if they hear us?" Daphne whispered.

               "What's that? Thought I heard something…" The guard drew closer.

               Megan pinched Daphne's ear and drew it close to her lips. "Not use to being heard yet, are you?"

               "Ow," Daphne frowned back, rubbing her ear once Meg had released it. 

               The guard above searched around for a bit longer, but after a time, the two girls heard his footsteps disappear into the dark streets. Megan sighed openly, shifting the weight of the nameless thief on her shoulder. His hood, in the rush to escape, had fallen back, and strands of his rather long, black hair had come loose from the leather thongs that had kept them pulled away from his face. For a moment, his head dipped into the water, and Daphne quickly got his face out again. 

               She looked at him for a moment, his damp strands sticking to his brow, and said in a rather soft voice to Megan, "He's rather attractive without the hood, isn't he?"

               Megan rolled her eyes. "Oh, come on! We don't have time for that, Daphne! We fell into a computer game, remember? He isn't real. In fact, he shouldn't even exist. For some reason, the game is not centered on Garrett, as we'd thought. There are other thieves in this place, along with, no doubt, other dangers. The Trickster, if it was his fault, is only one. And while I wouldn't put it past him to do something like this, I don't think he had a hand in it…"

               "What makes you say that?" Daphne asked, beginning to move toward the ladder leading to the main street. 

               "I don't know… Here- hold on!" Megan hissed as Daphne's hand grasped the first rung. "I can't possibly carry him around on the streets. If the guards are still looking, we won't be so lucky if they spot us!"

               "Alright, alright! Follow me then, I have an idea where we might find some healing potion or something…" she began moving toward the other end, where the pipe system wrapped around a corner and out of sight. 

               Megan eyed the curve dubiously through her water-speckled glasses. "Do you have any idea where you're going?"

               "Sure I do!" Daphne growled, "I'm not incompetent. I played the game as well as you, you know!"

               "This isn't a game anymore! I'm guessing, but I doubt we have the option to start over if we DIE. And if I remember correctly, you DIED a LOT. Let's try to keep this a little stealthier, and a little less- hmm- fatal. Could you try that, please?"

               Daphne giggled, and continued to move forward. "I'll try, I promise. Ouch-" she cast a doleful glance back at her companion, "And I've got something to tell you- things hurt here. I fell, twisted my ankle, and it hurts. Megan-" her voice trembled, "Megan, what if we can't use the healing potions? What if it only works for game characters?"

               The two figures in the back lagged a little, water lapping at their faces, and Megan, after some silence, finally said, "We have to find Garrett."

               The leader stopped, looking back. "What?" she whispered.

               "We have to find Garrett. He's the only one who might know if something strange is going on. He's the only person we _can_ go to, after all. The guards already instinctively hate us, and we've given them no reason to think we mean no harm, and the Hammers, or the Mechanists, or anyone else won't believe us." Megan stopped, lifting the thief up again, and shifting him to her back, clutching both his arms around her neck. "And," she added, growled half choked by the man's weight, "We have to find out how we got here. That's the only way we'll figure out how to get back."

               "Right," Daphne agreed, then murmured, "Though you must admit, this _is_ rather cool. Being thieves? Running around stealing things, killing people?"

               "Daphne. This isn't a game anymore. We're not just killing poorly animated artificial intelligences. We're killing _people_. Real people. With homes and families to go back to. And we've got homes to go back to as well. Who knows how long we've already been gone?"

               "Maybe time froze in real life, and only five minutes will have passed or something…"

               "And maybe it hasn't, and our families are worried sick, and are positive something terrible has happened… what will happen to us if they turn the computer off? Maybe everything here will cease to exist, did you ever think about that?"

               Turning her face away, Daphne watched the moonlight shiver on the surface of the water. "I'm cold," she said softly, "Let's get out of this water and onto the streets. We're far enough from the guard house now."

               She led the way to the nearest ladder, helping Megan to hoist the unconscious thief onto the cobblestones above. Silently, she massaged her ankle while her companion worked to get their newest companion back onto her shoulder again. 

               "Sorry I can't help you with him," she whispered, struggling to her feet again. 

               Megan shook her head. "Don't worry about it. You're hurt, too. Just keep a sharp eye out for people. I won't be able to move very fast with this guy, and you won't move fast with that ankle. Doesn't leave much room for stealth. Where are we going anyway?"

               "To the pub on that corner," Daphne pointed to the lights not far ahead, where there was a distinct buzz of commotion inside. 

               "Are you crazy?!" Megan hissed, "You think we can bring in an unconscious guy, prop him up in a chair, and not look conspicuous? Oh! And let me add, _he_ already went white after seeing our clothes! We don't fit in!"

               "Calm down!" Daphne hissed back, her eyes glinting mischievously. "_We_ aren't going anywhere. I'm going to go in alone, you stay in this alley with him." 

               "That's crazy! You're hurt. You can't just go-"

               A quick hand gesture killed the argument. "That's right. I'm hurt- put him down here- so it won't seem odd for me to go in and ask for a healing potion or two. Here, let me at him." She bent down and undid the clasp of the thief's long black cloak, and slipped off his boots. Then, after wringing out the water, she threw it over her shoulders, and switched shoes. When she pulled up the hood, her face was completely hidden. 

               "Hey, that's not bad," Megan said, "but still- you're hurt-"

               "I'll be fine. I won't get into trouble or anything. Besides, you've done your part helping him, now it's my turn."

               Megan rolled her eyes. "Oh, so that's it. _You_ want to do it so you can say you were the one to heal him or whatever silly 'I saved you' thing you can think of."

               "No, that's _not_ it," Daphne hissed defensively, "I happen to feel that it's my duty since he get hurt while trying to rescue me."

               "Sure, _that's_ it."

               "Fine," she said in a huff, "don't believe me, but it's the truth. Don't tell me you wouldn't feel responsible if he'd been hurt on your account!" Megan didn't respond, and Daphne straightened the hood. "Alright. This is it. I'll be back before you know it!" With that, she began limping toward the pub. 

               Inside, everything was smoky and smelled like liquor, and when Daphne finally found a table, it was piled with used whiskey bottles and plates partially filled with foul looking food. Everyone in the place looked like they came from a shifty background, and none of them looked at all like Garrett. _Though I suppose Garrett wouldn't be seen if he didn't want to be…_ she thought to herself, drawing the hood further out to cover her face. 

               A busty waitress in a low cut wench's dress swaggered over to the table. "Kin I getcha 'a draught or be it a meal yer lookin' aft'?"

               "No-" Daphne realized her voice a moment after she'd spoken, shifting it quickly to a gruff tone, "No. I- er- be 'a lookin' aft' somemutt call one 'er dem healin' potions, missy, if'n yer understand."

               The waitress leaned in closer, her chest looking as though it would tumble from the bodice that kept it in at any moment. "Auw," she smiled a crooked, ugly smile. Several of her teeth were missing, and her nose looked a little off center. "I getcher meanin', sar, an' I donno if'n I kern help yer in tha' depart'e'ment. Less' yer mak eet worth me' while…" She chuckled, deep and throaty, in a truly detestable manner, and Daphne had to hide the disgust in her voice at the overpowering smell of liquor on the woman's breath. 

               "O, I kin mak eet worth yer while, missy," Daphne said, dropping the purse of silver on the table, but keeping her hand over it. _This lady will rob me blind if I don't watch her._ "But I wan' yer werd as ah strong woman ter get me what I ask."

               She smiled her nasty grin at the stranger who was Daphne. "Sher thing. Ye's got me word. Now, hand o'r the money."

               "No, the good's ferst." Daphne closed her hand around the purse. 

               "Alright, I'll gets yer goods…" the woman continued smiling over her shoulder as she walked toward the back of the pub toward the bar. Something wasn't right. She had gone over to the bartender, and was talking avidly to him about something, casting knowing glances over in Daphne's area. 

               She picked up two small bottles of a golden liquid, and placed them into her bodice, before swaggering back over to the table. The bartender motioned for three men to draw near, and he pointed toward the waitress. The three shady men looked over at Daphne. Daphne felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. 

               "I got's yer goods, missy, naw hand or' the purse." The waitress's smile broadened. Something was definitely up. 

               "Put 'em on the table, an' ye'll get the purse."

               The three men had come up behind the waitress, dark looks covered their faces. "Step aside, Quanda," the leader of them said, not waiting for her to move of her own accord before pushing her brutally out of the way with his massive, trunk-like arm. "I hear we got's ourselves ah liar, boys."

               Daphne moved to pull the purse back into her cloak, but the man's hand pinned her arm to the table. "Not just yet, missy."

               "Yer tamperin' with the wrong feller," Daphne tried to growl, but her voice quivered.

               "Well, maybe we would be if ye's were ah feller," he grinned in much the same manner as the waitress. "But ye's a wench. Quanda say she saw yer hand. And lookit here," his eyes fell to the hand clutching the silver, "she were right. It's too small and dainty to be ah man's hand." With a move like the strike of a viper, he threw her hood back and knotted his hand in her hair. Daphne winced. "And she were right, o were she right."

               "Let go!" Daphne yelled, her fear heightening along with her anger. Her hands! Why hadn't she taken the thief's gloves too?

               "Not jest yet, not jest yet. I'd like to know what a pretty gerl like you's doin' all alone in this here city. You ain't one of the bar maids, and you ain't one of Johnny's wenches on the street, so you's gots to be someone new. And from the looks ah you, someone important."

               "That's what you think?" she demanded, "Well, sir, you'd be wrong. I'm nothing more than a street urchin. Not more than this silver to my name, and I stole it off some guy I found floating in the river. If you're expecting ransom-"

               The burly man laughed a great, booming laugh. "Ransom? Come naw, ye think that's what we'r aft'? It'd be more fun tah jest kill yah and leave yer body somewhere on the street." He reached behind him, releasing her arm, but keeping a tight grip on her hair. From the back of his belt, he pulled out a long, cruel looking dagger. 

               "If yeh cutt'em at the throat, they don' make no noise, see? Don' want to attract no guards, naw do we? Might be out lookin' for a gerl like you…"

               _That's true enough!_ Daphne thought with irony. 

               The man brought the blade up to her throat. "It's been a pleas'ur doin' business wich yer, missy."

               Megan sat quietly, staring at the moon and stars. Nothing looked familiar. It wasn't like she knew any of the constellations anyway, even if she'd been looking at the sky above her house. _I was supposed to learn that next year in astronomy,_ she thought, looking away and resting her cheek on her drawn up knees. _ Don't think that'll happen now. Who knows? We're probably going to find that there is no way back. Some stupid trick sucked us in, and no one will ever know. Our faces will be on milk cartons years from now, and people will look at them and say, 'isn't that sad? At seventeen, gone.' And the police will stop looking for us. And our families will forget us. _

               A tear pearled up in the corner of her eye, and just as it threatened to fall, the thief shifted and groaned. Crushing the tear into oblivion, Megan crept to his side in the shadows. 

               "I won't tell you anything," he managed to whisper hoarsely. 

               "Shh!" Megan hissed, "You don't have to! You're safe, for now."

               "I can't- shit!" he gritted his teeth in pain, "Everything hurts! And I'm- wet…"

               Megan looked up suddenly, listening intently to the night. Footsteps were drawing near, and with the steps, a low voiced conversation about a thief escaping by the guard house. 

               "Come on," she whispered, barely audible, as she grabbed the thief by his armpits and began dragging him toward the back of the alley. The footsteps were nearly at the entrance now. The thief was in serious pain, she could tell, but he kept silent amazingly well. 

               When she'd backed up so far into the alley that she bumped into the wall, Megan lowered the thief slowly to the ground. He let out a sharp gasp, but that was all. In the dim light she could see his face contorted in pain, tiny silver tears streamed down the creases of his young face, but he remained absolutely silent. His chest was heaving painfully, but he focused his eyes and grit his teeth in a clear show of determination to manage. 

               The guards at the end of the alley stopped, and they could be heard clearly. 

               "Well, good night, Larry. I'll see you on tomorrow's shift," the one closest to the alley said. 

               "Sure thing, Paxton, see you then." And the other guard walked on until his footsteps disappeared.

               The other guard stood waiting, then turned down the alley. Megan swallowed hard, her heart began racing. She tried to pull the thief in closer, so the guard wouldn't step on his legs, but there wasn't any more room. The guard walked up directly next to them, and he pulled something that jingled from his pocket. He jingled it for a moment, and Megan prepared herself to be attacked with iron cuffs and chains. But nothing happened. Then quite suddenly, there was a click, and to her horror, Megan realized they were not in an alleyway, but a walkway to the front door of a home!

Light from inside cascaded over them, blinding them. They sat in the brilliant light for a few silent moments, until things began to settle back into sight. The guard stood looking right down at them. 

"What's all this?" he asked, gazing at them with surprise.

Megan couldn't think of a thing to say. They were caught! "Please don't hurt us," she finally said at last, "We didn't mean to cause your men trouble! Honest we didn't!"

"Speak for yourself," the thief managed to growl.

She kicked him lightly in the shoulder, just enough to make him bite down hard and gasp for air. "Can't you see we're no threat to you? What does it matter if you let us go? It can't mean that much to you! Maybe we can strike a bargain. Maybe in exchange for us, we can catch two more thieves…"

"So you're thieves, then," the guard called Paxton mused, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "You know, this could mean a promotion for me if I turn you in." But it didn't sound as if he planned on carrying out his thought.

"Please, please let us go. We mean no harm, honestly," Megan pleaded, jabbing the thief again before he could make another comment. 

The guard watched them for a moment and then said in a gentle voice, "I can't possibly let you go in your condition. You both look like drowned rats. And, since I'm off duty, and I don't like to bring work into my home, I won't turn you in tonight. Stay here, and tomorrow, after you're rested and patched up, we'll see." He then went over to the thief, who still lay, looking thoroughly confused, and the man named Paxton lifted him to his feet, holding one arm over his shoulders. 

"Paxton! Paxton, we heard about the thie-" a stout woman bustled up to the doorway and stood gawking at the odd sight. "What on earth-!"

"I found these two out on the street, badly beaten by some muggers, it seems. This poor fellow seemed to get the brunt of it, but his sister here- she stayed with him, and it seems she managed to pull him out of the river where the muggers' had tossed him." Paxton helped the thief into the kitchen and propped him up by the open fire under the large soup kettle. 

"Oh, my heavens!" Mrs. Paxton gasped, immediately going over to Megan and patting her on the shoulder. "You're soaked to the bone, my poor courageous dear! Come, come, let me get you in some dry clothes. We haven't much to spare, but my oldest daughter just got married to a rich man, so I do have dress or two of hers that might fit." She pulled Megan along with her arm, and drew her into a back room. There was a single bed there, with a small body lying in it, snoring peacefully. 

"Right over here," the woman whispered, "and please try to keep your voice down, Otto's sleeping." The little boy stirred in his sleep a bit, and then fell quiet again. 

The woman withdrew a dress from the drawers of an old boudoir, and held it up to Megan as if to visually measure the size. "I think that'll do nicely," she said with a smile. "Here, put it on, I'll make sure none of the boys come in." Megan cast a quick glance at the sleeping figure on the bed. "Oh, don't worry," Mrs. Paxton smiled, "Otto sleeps like the dead, and he don't wake until he wants to."

Megan kept a close eye on him, all the same, as she stripped down and got herself into the dress. It fit decently, not perfectly, but well enough to work. She bundled up her clothes and hid them behind her back. The slight chance that her odd clothes hadn't been noticed at first while wet was just luck, she wouldn't give them another chance to see it. Mrs. Paxton looked out the door, then began clicking her tongue at something in the kitchen. 

"No, no! Paxton! You don't stir the soup like that!" She bustled out of the room, leaving Megan to attempt lacing the back of the dress by herself. 

As she stretched her arms behind her, Megan looked down at the bed and saw the little boy sitting upright, watching her. She was so shocked, she jumped a bit, and turned her back to him immediately. "How long have you been awake?" she hissed. 

He shrugged. "Long enough."

Megan flushed. He seemed to pick up on the silence. "You shouldn't be ashamed, you've got a nice body."

"Why you cheeky little pervert!" She hissed, clenching her fists. "You're lucky this dress isn't laced up or I'd- I'd-"

"My goodness, what is the commotion in here- oh! Otto! You're awake." Mrs. Paxton put her hands on her hips.

"Smelled the soup," Otto said.

"You and your stomach!" Mrs. Paxton chuckled, "Now get along! You can't be watching us women folk back here!"

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, and obediently left the room. 

"A good boy, that one," his mother said beaming, "Come now, let me do these laces for you."

The little boy came out into the kitchen with the other two men, looking positively pleased with himself. While his father's back was turned, he looked over at the thief with a smirk and whispered, "Got yourself a good woman, you do. Wouldn't mind her rescuing my butt sometime." He gave the thief a tremendous wink. 

The thief leaned back in the chair, rubbing his head with his one good arm. "This is too wrong for words," he sighed, half to himself. "Why didn't I just jump when I had the chance?" 

"Here you go," Mrs. Paxton said as she came into the room, followed by the somewhat self-conscious Megan. When the dress was properly laced in the back, it fit her quite well, though there was so much skirt to the dress, she felt a little lost in it. The thief managed to turn his head a bit to look, his eyebrows raising ever so slightly, until he turned his face back to the fire. 

"I've found a flask of healing potion, kept it for some time in case Paxton needed it," the woman said as she came over to his side. "Here you are, dear. Oh, you poor thing. Well, you take this, and while it's working, I'll go see if we've not got something you can wear until these things are dry." When she smiled, little crow's feet extended down her face, and Megan noticed the few gray hairs at the woman's temples. With a huff, she hustled into the room adjoining the room Otto had been sleeping in. 

The thief winced, lifting the flask to his lips to down the liquid. It seemed to help the moment he took it. The color slowly faded back into his cheeks, and his brow, which had been creased with pain, relaxed. He sat, eyes closed, silently as the potion did it'd job, and when it had finally finished, he slouched forward and placed the empty flask onto the table. 

"Thanks," he grunted, lounging back in the chair, and with a ceremonious gesture, he pulled out the leather tie from his hair and began slicking it back again, tight across his head. When he had gotten it as he liked, he bound the hair up again, and looked about the kitchen. 

The guard, Paxton, was stirring the soup again, this time in the proper manner that Mrs. Paxton had shown him, and he looked positively cheerful. "We don't get guests much," he smiled over at the thief, "Not even of your kind."

"Your kind?" Otto asked with a curiously impressed look at the thief. "Dad, you don't mean this guy's a- a-"

Paxton frowned at his son, putting a finger to his lips. "Hush! You want your mother to find out! And not a word out of you to _anyone_ about this!"

Otto nodded solemnly, but continued to regard the thief with a look of something like awe. 

"So now," Paxton said at last, "We can't simply be calling you 'you', so how about some names, eh?"

Megan cast a glance at the thief. He shrugged. "Raife," he said at last, "Just Raife. No parents, not really, anyway." 

"Megan," Megan said, looking at Raife, "Megan Johnson."

"Well," Paxton said, "It's a pleasure to have you among us Raife and Miss Megan."

Megan glanced over at the guard. "We've got another friend with us, too," she added. "Her name is Daphne Darson. She went over to the pub a while ago- oh, what if she can't find us when she gets back?!" Megan wrung her hands unconsciously. "Would it be alright if I went and waited for her at the corner?"

"Certainly, certainly," Paxton nodded, "Though perhaps I should go with you… even for- well- people like you, these streets are dangerous at night for a young lady."

He began to stand up, but the thief put out his hand, rising himself. "No, I'll go with her."

Megan was already out the door and to the corner by the time Raife got away from the fire. She stood in the silver moonlight, watching the pub in the distance. The thief came up silently beside her, leaning against the stonewall as he crossed his arms and closed his eyes. She didn't seem to notice him. 

"Would you stop fidgeting?" he demanded all of a sudden, throwing out a hand to stop her ever-wringing hands. Megan looked down at his hand, still gloved in black leather, as it gently covered hers. As quick as before, he withdrew the hand and crossed his arms again. "You're making me edgy with all that moving."

"Sorry," she whispered, looking back to the pub. Everything seemed really quiet. "I just get the feeling something very bad has just happened."

"Give it a few minutes, it'll probably pass." After a few seconds, Megan dared a glance back at Raife, but his eyes were closed and he looked almost as if he were sleeping while he stood. 

"Some comfort you are," she murmured under her breath, surprised when he cracked an eyelid and smirked.

"I never said I was trying to comfort you."

Megan frowned and turned her back to him, walking a ways further into the street. "Incorrigible!" she whispered again.

"Not entirely," he said aloud back. 

_His hearing is amazing,_ she thought, unwittingly casting a glance in his direction to check that he hadn't been able to hear her thoughts as well.

Daphne scrunched up her eyes, waiting for the smooth slicing movement of the blade across her throat. Then quite suddenly, there was a shout from behind and something like a candlestick came flying out of nowhere, striking the big brute in the back of the head. He slumped to the table, dropping the knife into Daphne's lap. With a quick grab, she snatched it up, and stumbled back from the table. The moment the blunt object had struck, and the first victim fallen, the entire bar went into a rage, though not at anyone in particular. Plates started flying, patrons whipped out knives and daggers of all sorts, and everyone attacked everyone else. 

Someone ran into Daphne where she stood. "Come on," a young voice said musically, "This way! This way!" The young barmaid pulled Daphne out the back door and into a dark alley. She smiled, gasping for breath. "Are you alright?" She asked, smiling sweetly. Daphne felt awkward all of a sudden. 

"Yeah, fine." 

"I knew you weren't an old man, you've got a youthful voice. Though it's a handsome one!" She lifted her hand to tuck a piece of hair behind her ear. "Do you mind if I-" her hand reached up suddenly, and pulled the hood back. She gasped, flinging her hand to her mouth. "You're a girl!"

Daphne pulled away from her, "Of course I am!"

"Oh, no! Oh, no!" The maid pulled away, blushing terribly. "I'm- I'm so embarrassed! Excuse me, I didn't mean…"

"Forget it. Thanks for getting me out, all the same." Daphne brushed a few crumbs from a thrown dish off her shoulder. "Well, thanks, I guess. I need to be going."

"You're hurt…" the maid's hand had dropped to her bottom lip. "Didn't you need…"

"Healing potions, yeah, I do. And still do. I guess I'll have to wait, now…"

"I could get you one or two," the maid said, "I feel it's the least I can do for- for, well, thinking you were a…"

"Don't bother with more than one, if it's too much trouble. I have a friend who needs it more than me."  


	2. In Which Daphne Gains Two Companions

Chapter 2

               Megan sat up with a start, staring into the flames of the fireplace. The small house was quiet, the windows showed that night was still heavily upon them. The cushion beneath her had shifted off to the side, exposing her hip to the hard stone floor. A painful ache resonated through her side as she arranged herself back onto the makeshift bed, and though she tried to keep her hiss of a wince as quiet as possible, it sounded to her as if it echoed through the entire kitchen.

               "You're as loud as a horse," Raife grumbled from where he rolled over on his own bed of folded blankets.

               "Sorry." Her voice died away, only the crackling of the fire continued. Megan laid on her stomach, resting the side of her head on her folded arms, eyes watching the tongues of flame and the fire arrow that fueled it. Her breathing was so soft, at times, she wondered if she was holding her breath.

               Raife rolled over again with another groan. "I can't decide which is worse. You trying to be quiet or deliberately being loud and restless."

               "Well, make up your mind so I can stop bothering you!" Megan snapped back, raising herself onto her elbows.

               "Hey, don't start snapping at _me_, I didn't do this to you. I didn't do any of this. I don't even know why I'm staying here. I'm healthy. I've got no more business with you or your friend, alive or dead, but most likely dead." Raife had, as he spoke, gotten up and had begun eyeing a candlestick on the mantel with a special sparkle in his eye. "I'm a thief. I don't work with anyone, certainly not two pitiful girls."

               Megan heard her cue and leapt to her feet, hissing as quietly yet as forcefully as she could. "We pitiful girls, as you call us, managed to save your life tonight!"

               "Which was only in jeopardy because of you!" The thief's dark eyes snapped angrily as he glared down at her. He was a good foot taller, it seemed, though it could have simply been the situation. "Thank you for reminding me what my job is," he said with a sharp sneer. "I'm no babysitter. I don't know who you are, but I'm not sticking around here to find out!" He turned away from her and picked up his cloak, dry now from the fire. With a callous gesture he tossed it about his shoulders and drew up the hood to mask his slicked back hair and long, fiery face.

               He was at the door, his hand on the handle, when he paused and looked back. Megan didn't turn around to look at him, but it was as if she could hear his own thoughts tearing at each other. His footsteps were swift in bringing him back in front of her. She opened her eyes and watched as he picked up the candlestick and winked.

               "I wasn't sure if I could sell this for much, but since I was robbed by the two of you- yes, I did notice my purse was gone- I'll just have to make up the difference."

               Megan let the look of disgust come across her face. "I hope your conscience is clear, stealing from the man who put his job on the line to help you! I doubt you even have a conscience!"

               "You said you were a thief," Raife replied as he slipped the candlestick into his quiver, "so you should know that thieves can't afford to think about anyone but themselves." Megan watched as the dark figure swept across the room and out the door into the night without another word.

               Much to her surprise, she felt tears coming to her eyes. "Oh, what are we going to do now?" She heard her own, small voice say into the emptiness. A fear gripped her and she felt her only chance coming to a head. "I can't stay here, either. I've got to find Daphne and we've got to find Garrett! He's the only one who will know what's going on and how we can get home! And if Daphne's not-" Megan choked on the word, "-I'll just have to find Garrett myself. I owe it to her family to tell them what's become of her. It's my fault. It was my house that we played the game at, and even if they don't believe me, I've got to tell them. There's no other way."

               With a determined frown, she walked across to the kitchen table where Paxton had left out his writing materials from during dinner when he'd composed a letter to his brother. She took one of the sheets and wrote as neatly as she could with the quill pen:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Paxton,

               Thank you so much for your hospitality. I wish we could have stayed longer, but I fear we both had to move on early this morning. Thank you, again!

                              Megan and Raife

PS- Our friend is fine, and you can burn this letter if it would be best. Thank you!

               Megan's face burned as she wrote the last line of lies, but it would set their kind hearts at rest if they thought everything was alright. She put the sheet under the glass inkwell and put the pen back. With a quick sigh, she began to gather her things, only to realize she didn't have things, only her original set of clothes which she threw in the fire just before she hurried out the door, toward the pub.

               "This way!" the maid whispered with a wave of her hand. "I know a guy, he sells things in Black Alley. I can get you a potion or two."

               "I just need one, thank you," Daphne whispered back. "I've got two friends waiting in an alley and one of them is hurt really bad, maybe with a broken back. And it's all because of me," she added with a low sigh. "So you see, I really only need one, for him."

               "Him? Is he- are the two of you?" the bar maid looked back at her with an inquisitive expression.

               Daphne blushed and thought for a moment. It'd be best if the girl didn't know anything about them. "Yes, yes, we're a thing. Both thieves, been together since we broke out of prison together."

               The maid's eyes grew wide as she continued to lead their way down the twisting back ways. "Really? You broke out of prison? That's amazing! You must be an amazing thief!"

               "Yes, well," Daphne smiled with a cough, "I don't like to brag or anything."

               The maid stopped suddenly and with a hissed, "Come on!" grabbed Daphne's arm and pulled her into a dark corner.

               "What is it?" the outsider hissed, finding the small hand over her mouth the moment the words escaped her lips.

               In the quiet that followed, she heard the voices.

               "At least the Builder has granted us a quiet night, isn't it so, Farius?"

               "Aye, a quiet night indeed. Not even the city's guard has come this way."

               "How long were we to wait for the rouge?"

               "Not much longer, my friend. If he does not show up, we shall depart. We cannot risk treason."

               "Thou hast a wise head upon thy shoulders, friend."

               "Aye. Quiet thyself. I think he comes."

               For a moment it seemed as if there was no sound at all, and then quiet suddenly, one of the voices let out a cry of alarm.

               "Thou didst keep us waiting, Garrett. We have not the time for your roguery."

               "Tell me why you wanted to speak with me." It was Garrett's voice alright, in all it's Stephen Russell greatness, only this time it wasn't a voiceover- it was real! Gruff, raspy, sarcastic, bitter! Daphne bit her lip to keep from giggling. Oh, if Megan were only here now!

               "Things are stirring in the city, Garrett. Things which we Hammers do not like at all."

               "Are the Pagans giving you trouble again?" So sarcastic! Daphne's mind raced. She had to talk to Garrett, but the Hammers! In all her gaming experience, not once had a religious fanatic with a huge, three foot hammer made of iron ever been a good thing.

               "Not the Pagans, but it probably has something to do with them. We've read of a curse coming upon the land, a curse from which none, not even yourself, can escape."

               "Stop being so vague," Garrett hissed. "What is it?"

               "The skies will darken with clouds, black as night."

               "So there's a big storm coming, big deal."

               "This will be no storm. There shall be no lightning, no thunder, no rain, no hail. Only darkness. The undead will walk the streets. The Pagans will have their chaos, as thou surely knowth they like. And it will not leave until whatever summoned it is destroyed."

               "So it does involve the Pagans," Garrett mused. "What do you want me to do about it?"

               "Find the item that brought this curse upon us. We have reason to believe it is in the Old Quarter of town, near the docks. Perhaps even in one of the warehouses."

               "Do I get any clues as to what this so called _item_ looks like?"

               "We don't know what it is, only that a great disturbance has been felt on this night and something has entered our city which was never destined to be here. The item may have some affect on it."

               "Is that all?"

               "For now. We shall contact you if we need further- services… Garrett?"

               Daphne leaned around the corner looking at the two confused Hammerites. There was no one else with them. The master thief was gone.

               After the maid had pulled her back into the shadows, they waited some time until the Hammerites had finally walked past and their footsteps vanished into the city. Daphne was the first of the two out into the street.

               "I need a map!" she said quite suddenly.

               "What for?" The maid asked, her hands on her hips. "I thought you needed a healing potion!"

               "I do, but I need a map as well!" Daphne wrung her hands.

               "We're almost to the store, come on, we can talk more later! Let's just get off the streets. I think those Hammers were right, something weird _is_ going on, and I think _you've_ got something to do with it." Her eyes were fixed hard on Daphne's face.

               Megan leaned against the back wall of the pub and sighed heavily. The place was empty. Though the door had been locked, one of the windows had been busted open, and allowed her entrance to the place. Everything was in chaos, Chairs were tipped over, tables were on their sides, there was even food and blood on the floor, but most noticeable to Megan, there was no sign of Daphne.

               At first she had panicked, thinking up all the dreadful things that could have happened to her friend, but that only made her more afraid. The streets were dark, save for the occasional streetlamp, and the shadows were both a fear and a comfort to her. She could hide in them and be certain she was unseen, and yet, who else might be thinking the same thing? With a burst of boldness, Megan followed an alleyway back to the front of Paxton's house to see if Daphne had returned. There was no one. Even if she had returned, Megan thought, she would have thought we'd gone elsewhere. But where?

               The sewers, Megan nodded. If they had evacuated the area suddenly, if Paxton hadn't lived there, she knew she would have taken Raife back to the sewers to lay low. Turning in the direction she knew the sewers lay, Megan set off with a determined frown.

               "We came this way, I know it!" Megan sighed, stopping to scratch her head as she looked about the dark streets. From the moment she'd left the safety of Paxton's alley it seemed that the city had gotten shiftier and darker with each step. Now, when she was certain she was lost, Megan sank into a shadowy corner to think. "If only I had a map!" she sighed heavily.

               The wind came through with a hiss and vanished, but not before she heard the rustling of paper. Just down the street a parchment flapped from where it was pinned to the wall. No one seemed to be approaching, at least, not that she could hear, so Megan bolted over to the sheet and began scanning it. A grim looking face was drawn upon it with enough likeness she knew who it was even before she saw the words, "Wanted for theft and assault," posted below it.

               "Garrett!" She pulled the poster down and read the fine print aloud to herself. "Has been spotted in the South Quarter of town. Report all findings to the City Guard Station." For a moment she stood in thought. "If anyone has seen him, they'll have reported it to the guards, which means they probably have it documented in that station! If I can get it… I might have a better idea where I could find Garrett. But that means breaking in… doing some _real_ thief work…"

               The thought might have bothered her if she had been in Hollis or anywhere in the real world, but here there was no other way. "Alright," she said with a nod. "I'll go to the guard station and find out what they know about Garrett." With a glance back, she sighed and said to the empty night, "Goodbye, Daphne. I don't know where you are, but I hope we meet up again. I won't leave without you, I promise." Her footsteps drew her down the road in the shadows, finally disappearing into the night.

               "That ankle looks pretty bad, Missy," the store clerk said with a toothy grin, his gums looking almost black behind his dry lips. "It's a good thing you come when you did. Here, drink this down."

               Daphne took the flask, looking over it as best she could. From what she recalled from the game, this was indeed a health potion, but then again, she had never seen any poisons or sleeping draughts, so how could she be sure it wasn't one of those? The wincing pain from her busted ankle decided that it was a risk she ought to take because either way, the pain would end. "Here goes," she muttered, crunching her eyes closed and wrinkling up her nose. With a quick swig it all went down. Almost instantly she felt the pain vanish like a mist.

               She leapt to her feet and looked down. "Wow!" she smiled at the maid, "It does work!"

               "Of course it works," the maid replied. "What did you think?"

               "I wasn't sure if it would work for me…" Daphne stopped abruptly, knowing that she tread on dangerous ground. She turned to the store clerk. "I need another one, not for me, but for a friend. Maybe two, because he's in really bad shape and I don't know how much he needs."

               "Sure thing," the clerk dug up two more identical flasks. "That'll be 200 coins."

               "You're bleeding me dry!" the maid complained, handing the money over. "You better be prepared to pay me back. I agreed to get you a potion, this is three! I can't afford that, especially now that I'm out of work."

               "You're out of work, Sherry? How'd that happen?"

               The maid, now identified as Sherry, blushed deeply. "It's a long story," she said with a sigh, then turned to Daphne. "Are you quite finished?"

               The two left the store and walked out into the dark streets. Daphne turned to the maid. "Well, thank you for your kindness. It's meant a lot to me. I need to get going, though, so I'll see you around, I guess!" She turned to leave, but a hand fell upon her shoulder.

               "Oh, no you don't!" Sherry said with a frown. "You're not going anywhere without me. Not now. I want to get some of my money back, and since you're such a great thief, I suspect going with you would be rather profitable."

               "I can't have you tagging along after me!" Daphne complained. "I don't even know what I'm doing next, except going back to find Megan and… my partner…" Trying to keep all the lies going was ending up rather tricky, especially when she couldn't get her mind off what the Hammers had said. _"…something has entered our city that was never destined to be here."_ For some ominous reason, Daphne was almost certain the Hammers were referring to her and Megan. What else could it be? Had this item caused them to fall into the game? It had to be. For a moment, it seemed like she almost heard the "New Objectives" bell ring in her head. So she now had to get back to Megan and the unnamed thief, get a map, and then track down Garrett, who most likely would have obtained the item by that time and possibly have handed it over to the Hammers.

               "Look," Sherry said, breaking the other out of her thoughts, "I'm coming with you. I have a feeling that something very important is going on, and I'm not going to waste a moment to find out what it is. I think you know something, and I'm not leaving until I know!"

               "Why should I trust you? I'm a master thief, after all, I could kill you just as soon as I could tell you!" Daphne felt frustration growing inside her. Is this how Megan felt sometimes?

               "So you do know something!" The maid looked exalted that her suspicion had been correct. "Tell me, and I swear I will tell no one else. I just want to be prepared for whatever those Hammers were talking about. It sounds bad, and I just want to live through it. I promise I will not tell a soul."

               Daphne stood looking at Sherry for a few moments. There was so much to lose if the maid was lying. If she ran off and told the city guards what she knew, they'd all be doomed for certain.

               Just then, they heard a sound; a low moaning groan, and heavy footsteps. "Come on!" Daphne grabbed Sherry's arm and pulled her under the steps of the store where it was sufficiently dark. The sound was easily recognizable.

               Almost immediately following their dive to cover, a pale, half-skeletal zombie plodded into the courtyard. Its low, chilling moan echoed through the streets as it shuffling steps took it not three feet past them, the stench of its rotting body enveloping them. Sherry almost choked, but Daphne pressed her hand over the maid's mouth and nose. The zombie moved past them and finally left their sight as it exited into the dark alleys on the other side of the courtyard. When Daphne removed her hand, Sherry was shaking.

               "What was that?" she whispered, her voice barely loud enough to hear and not nearly stable enough to understand.

                "It was an Undead," Daphne said with a low exhale as she crawled out. "Come on. We've got to get-"

               A loud howl erupted from the dark alleys and the two leapt to their feet, half expecting the zombie to charge them from some hidden hiding place. But to their astonishment, they heard the clash of steel and saw the brilliant light of a flash bomb illuminate the back alley. A figure bolted toward them, his arm over his face as he ran, seemingly dizzy. Only a sudden squeak from Daphne as he knocked her, and himself, to the ground caused him to pull his arm away. They hit the ground hard, and he rolled away from her, trying to scramble to his feet as Sherry grabbed his cloak hard.

               Daphne got up and went over to him. He drew out his sword and pulled his cloak free. "Who are you! What do you-" he paused. "Oh, it's you."

               At that moment, Daphne recognized the unnamed thief. "What are you doing here? I thought you were hurt!"

               "I was hurt, no thanks to you!" he snapped back.

               "You're not dead, thanks to me! And Megan!" Daphne paused. "Where is Megan, anyway?"

               "Damned if I know," the thief replied, sliding his sword back into its sheath. "We parted company."

               "What do you mean? I need to find her! I saw Garrett!"

               The thief paused quite suddenly. "You saw him?"

               "Yes, I saw him! So did Sherry!"

               He turned to the maid. "You saw him, too?"

               "Yes, I saw him too! Who are you?" Sherry had her hands back on her hips, but her face was still very pale.

               "Raife. What do you mean you saw Garrett?" Raife turned back to Daphne.

               "I saw him just down the road. He was talking to some Hammerites about a job."

               "What job?"

               "It had something to do with an item in the Old Quarter, but I don't suspect you'll care much. You wan to go your own way, fine! Go! You're not worthy to talk to Garrett!" Daphne turned her back on him and said to Sherry, "Come on. Let's get going."

               The thief followed, "_You're_ going to go talk to _Garrett_? The MASTER THIEF. Who are you to talk to Garrett?"

               Daphne stopped walking and glared at him over her shoulder, though she spoke to Sherry. "You want to know the truth, Sherry? I'll tell you. I'm not from here. I'm not even from this world. I don't know who brought me and Megan here, I don't know how it happened, but I've got to find Garrett because he's the only one who will know how to send us back. The Hammers know about us, I'm sure of it. They mentioned something that could have been us. Now there are zombies in the streets, and I'm pretty sure Garrett's the only one who will know what's going on! So if you really want to get mixed up in all this, it's your own funeral. And you!" She addressed Raife, "I've got things to do. I'm not waiting up for anyone, particularly not some selfish Garrett-wannabe! You got it? So go! Leave! Me and Megan can do this ourselves."

               Raife watched as they started to walk away again, this time, Sherry was whispering hurriedly under her breath. "Are you kidding me? You're from another world? That's so amazing! Of course I'll tag along! This is history making stuff!"

               "Fine," Raife said behind them. "I'll come too. But only because the Old Quarter has a lot of good looting places."

               "Don't slow me down," Daphne scoffed, not bothering to turn around.

               "Don't worry about that," Raife sneered.

               Quite abruptly, a howl erupted from behind them and the zombie, including a few friends, charged them from the dark alley. With a scream, Daphne took off running, followed closely by the two new comrades.


	3. In Which Everything Take A Little Turn

Overhead, the clouds shifted over the moon, drenching the city in muted darkness. Megan pressed her back up against the wall, listening for footsteps around the corner. Her feet were tired and her eyes itched to close in sleep, but her heart pounded too hard to let her even consider stopping. No one was coming. Walking as lightly as she could, hoping her skirts didn't make a sound, she turned the corner and stepped into the shadowed overhang of a gated door. Still nothing moved in the city. Overhead, a light from a third story window drifted down, making a patch of yellow glow on the cobblestones. It was open, and the door on the ground floor was accessible. Holding her breath, Megan bolted across the street to stand beside it. Every nerve was tensed as her hand slowly clenched the door latch and a click echoed out into the streets. It was open.

_This is it,_ Megan thought with a deep breath, _I'm going to break the law. I'm going to go into this building and steal whatever I can use… Maybe they'll have a map, and then I'll be able to find the guard house…_ Guilt swept over her even before she pushed the wooden door open and stepped into the hall. At the end, though a doorway, she could hear two muffled voices making small talk about how the city's crime rate had been skyrocketing. Megan slunk up the stairs on the side, relieved to find the upper rooms unlit. She tried the door on her right, first, only finding a few empty crates piled in a corner, nothing of use. The guilt had slowly worn off as she progressed, replaced only by the chilling fear of being discovered.

The second door resisted her attempts to push it open, so she tiptoed further, freezing just outside the last darkened room. There were two candles spilling orbs of light across the room, and a figure lay snoring on the bed. The woman rolled over in her sleep, mumbling something, but she did not awake. Megan swallowed as quietly as she could. On the table beside the bed was a gleaming key. _That might fit the locked door!_

It took some effort for Megan to start her feet moving into the occupied room, walking slowly with even her fingers spread apart, as if their rubbing together would awaken the woman in the bed. Step by step, the bedside table crept closer until the key was almost in her grasp. The sleeper snorted in their sleep, making Megan jump, dashing to the dark corner for shelter. A few silent moments passed before Megan knew it was safe again. Her hand reached out slowly, slowly… she could almost feel the cold metal in her hand…

A shriek echoed in the streets outside, followed by the piercing clang of metal on metal. The woman sat bolt upright at the noise and whirled to stare right at Megan.

"Who are you?" she demanded in a noble, educated voice as she frowned. It didn't take a moment for her to realize what was going on when her eyes settled on Megan's outstretched hand and the key. "Help! Help! Thief!" she screeched at the top of her lungs, leaping out of the bed. "Don't hurt me!" she screamed before bolting out of the room. Her shouts for the guards echoed dully in the wooden hall.

Megan's eyes flew around the room. The only opening was a window out onto a ledge, two stories about the ground. Her hands wrapped around the window sill as the voices of guards floated into the room from downstairs. Their footsteps thundered on the stairs as they approached.

"Where the devil? Alright," the first guard shouted, "Where've you gone to?"

Out on the ledge, around the corner of the building, Megan held her breath, cursing herself for being so clumsy. There were no shadows where she stood, and the sudden image of a troupe of guards with bows sent a chill of dread into her. A ways down, the shadows started again, and for a long time, Megan clutched the wall, waiting, her ears straining for an exclamation of discovery and the whistle of an arrow aimed at her. But there was nothing. Everything was silent for a time.

Taking a deep breath, Megan began inching back to the window. The woman was gone, as were the guards, and not a sound betrayed their whereabouts. She lowered her foot carefully onto the wooden floor, air hissing between her lips as a creak echoed into the room. Nothing. The silence fueled her paranoia as she crept across the room, ducking into shadows wherever they were available. On the bedside table the key glittered in the candlelight. Within moments and without even thinking about it, Megan slipped the key into her pocket and fled into the shadows just outside in the hall, listening. Nothing moved.

"Where did they go?" she hissed aloud, keeping her voice low, but unable to stand the silence any longer. She waited a little longer until it was clear that nothing was coming. Then she slipped down the dim hallway to the locked door. The key clicked as she put it in and turned it, the door turned silently on its hinges. Inside, the room was lit by two candles, exposing a shelf of goods. Her eyes danced over the items as her hands snatched up a speed potion, two health potions, a water arrow, and a flash bomb.

_Great,_ Megan thought as she bundled the items in her skirt, _why do I even need a flash bomb? I can't ever look away in time. They're useless._ All the same, having it in her hand felt right, so she kept it.

Carrying everything cupped in the folds of her skirt made moving stealthily difficult, and Megan resolved that she would steal a pair of pants and a cloak with deep pockets the next chance she got. The thought made her sick. _What am I becoming? I'm not playing at being a thief anymore—I'm a criminal for real!_ Her feet couldn't carry her down the stairs fast enough. The voices in the room at the end of the hall were still murmuring softly, and she could hear someone pacing. _That must be where the woman went._ The flood of relief washed over Megan as her hand settled on the door latch and she stepped out onto the street.

A row of bushes along the side of the road caught her eye as a good place to organize her things, and Megan didn't bother to hide her footsteps on the cobblestones in her hurry to get into the shadows. Overhead, the moon came out again, providing her with just enough light to set her things down and look them over properly. The health potions were necessary, no way around it. She wasn't sure if they'd work on her, being from another world, but there was no sense in leaving them behind. The speed potion would come in handy if she ever needed to get away quickly, so this she bundled up, too. But the flash bomb… with a sigh, she tucked it under the bushes.

"I'll come back for it later if I have to…" she murmured to herself.

"It won't be there," a gruff voice said suddenly. Megan leapt to her feet and tried to press into the corner of the shadows, only to find someone already there. With a yelp she stumbled back, falling on her back as she watched a figure emerge from the shadows. His gloved hand reached out and lifted the flash bomb from beside her foot, tucking it into his black cloak.

It didn't take her more than one guess to figure out who it was. "Garrett!" she breathed, staring at him, the man behind whose eyes she had grown use to this world.

He watched her suspiciously, but made no effort to run. It was clear he knew who was more capable of defending themselves in case of trouble. "Who are you? How do you know my name?" His voice, just like in the game, sent a chill to Megan's stomach.

"I was heading to the guard station to find-"

Her words were cut off as he lunged forward, snagging her by the throat and moving his face so close to she could feel the heat of it and watched his mechanical eye focus on her under his dark expression. "Oh really? Do you have that much faith in the city guard?" His words grated her ears with scorn.

Garrett was squeezing, now, slowly cutting off her windpipe. There was only one thing that came to her mind as her vision began spiraling to black. She let out a squeak. The thief stopped as his eyes grew wide.

He stood up quickly, staring down on her with surprise and distrust scrawled across his face. "What did you say?"

Megan's hand flew to her throat as she coughed, air flooding back into her lungs. "Artemus," she gasped. "I know Artemus."

"Give them to me," Raife growled as he sat glaring at Daphne as if the look alone could drop her where she stood.

* * *

Daphne crossed her arms and glared back. "Why should I?"

"Because they're _my_ boots!" he shouted. Sherry clapped her hands over hear ears.

"Stop it both of you! Do you want those creatures to find us?" She sent a chilling glare at both of them before putting her hands on her hips. "Daphne, do you even know where we're going?"

"I doubt she knows where we are." Raife scowled as Daphne begrudgingly took off his boots and handed them to him. His eyes snagged on the cloak. "That's mine too." The thief was on his feet with one hand knotted in the cloth before Daphne could balk and pull away from him.

The bar maid's hand came down on Raife's with a sharp slap that echoed through in the dark alley. Pulling his hand away abruptly, the thief scowled at her and sank back onto the steps to put on his boots.

"It's not like you need a cloak," Daphne snorted, "You've already stolen another one, I see."

"I like my cloak." He didn't look up as Sherry began to pace.

"We need to know where we're going. What do we need to do?" She looked right at Daphne. "You're the one who seems to have an idea what's going on."

Raife jumped when Daphne threw his cloak at him and crossed her arms, sniffing as she said, "Fine. Take your dumb cloak." Then she addressed Sherry. "As for where we need to go, I'm not exactly sure yet. Garrett's the one who knows where that item is, and as far as I've seen, he's no where to be found. He's probably already got the talisman or whatever it is…" She began walking to the end of the alley, looking up as the moon came out from behind the clouds, throwing milky light over the city. _Megan, where are you? _Daphne crossed her arms and leaned against the wall, her eyes darting down all the roadways that passed by the alley, keeping a watch for stumbling zombies. They'd lost the last ones, after what seemed like a few miles of sprinting, but now she had no idea where they were in the city. For all their fuss, neither Sherry nor Raife had any idea either.

"If I were Garrett," she mused quietly, "what would I do now? I'd find a map… but what if I can't find one… where would have a map?"

Raife straightened his cloak on his shoulders, carefully lifting the hood over his head. His mouth morphed into a smirk as the rest of his face disappeared into the shadows. Even so, in the dark, his eyes twinkled as they reflected the moonlight. "I've got a map," he said.

Daphne looked over at him. "Why didn't you just say so?" she demanded, glaring hard.

"You had my cloak," he snapped back. "You had a map the whole time!"

"I searched your cloak, you didn't have a map."

"You stole my money, but you clearly missed the important stuff." His mouth turned down at the corners in a grimace, "You soaked it right through, anyway. I'll be lucky if the ink didn't run."

"You're lucky you're alive at all!" Daphne took a step forward, raising her fists even as a cold laugh echoed from the thief.

"Children, please!" Sherry cried at last, throwing up her hands between them. "Just get out the map, Raife and we'll all get on our way."

The thief bit back a grumble as he pulled out a folded piece of parchment, shaking it in front of Daphne for a moment before bothering to open it. "Well, it seems alright, lucky for you," he said. "Where are we going?"

"The Old Quarter." Her voice was cold.

Raife looked hard at the map.

Sherry let out an exasperated sigh and muttered, "You're hopeless," before she snatched the map from his hands and began looking it over herself. The thief crossed his arms and walked over to the wall, leaning his back up against it. "Alright," she said, walking over to Daphne. "We're here. The Old Quarter is all the way over there. We can walk along this road until we get to the bridge, then we have to turn left. See?"

Daphne nodded and began chewing on her nails absently. Raife eventually migrated over to them and glanced over their shoulders with a brief scowl before walking back to the shadowed corner of the alley, acting as if he didn't care. At last, however, he grew visibly irritated by the long wait and the two girls speaking in hushed voices.

"Are you ladies done yet, or will it take you the rest of the night?"

Hardly bothering to lift her head to glare back at him, Daphne muttered, "This wouldn't be nearly so hard if you hadn't abandoned Megan. Now we have to consider where she might have gone. If we do find the talisman, or whatever it is that brought the two of us here, I'm not leaving without her."

The thief must have rolled his eyes, but under the hood, it wasn't visible. "Such sweet sentiment." The sarcasm wasn't lost on anyone.

"Why don't you just leave, if you're so set against being helpful?" Sherry snapped at last.

"Look, I-" Raife stepped forward, but all three froze, listening to the voices coming down the street. It sounded like Hammerites…

Daphne motioned for them to sink into the shadows, and they stood as still as statues as the troupe of Hammerites marched toward them from down the street. There were almost a dozen of them, all marching in line as they chanted one of their hymns about the Builder. The leader, to their dismay, carried a torch.

The light spread out across them before the three had a chance to shift, and the leader's voice rang overhead. "What is this? Pagans?"

"We're no Pagans!" Daphne cried, even as two heavy, gloved hands fell on her shoulders, clamping her in an iron grip. "We're just citizens!"

Sherry let out a squeak when one of the Hammerites caught her arm and pulled her into the light of the torch, giving her a good once over with his dubious eyes. "This one looks common enough…" he muttered to the leader.

Two of the guards tried to lay hands on Raife, but even before Daphne could shout for him to stop, the thief had drawn his sword. The two guards pulled their hammers from where they hung at their backs, and swung at him. The battle cry rang out over the streets, "For the Builder!" And the rest of the men, not holding either Daphne or Sherry, went after the thief, who upon seeing himself greatly outnumbered by iron mallets, made a few quick slices before bolting down the alley, and vanishing around the corner. The troupe of Hammerites followed him, and Daphne felt the guard at her shoulders lock her hands behind her back and shove her forward.

"Thee must be a Pagan to be caught so with a thief. Unless thee be a thief thyself?" He forced her in front of the leader who still held the torch above his head. "Brother Meldorn, I leave these pagans to thy fair judgment."

Brother Meldorn cast a loathing glance at the two girls. "The Builder guideth me to take these criminals back to Gormalt Cathedral. They shalt be dealt with there." With that, he turned and began leading the few remaining men of his troupe back down the street.

In the distance, Daphne saw the towers of Gormalt Cathedral, and her stomach sank.

* * *

Garrett glowered, or at least Megan thought he did, the cowl of his cloak hid most of his face in shadows. "I don't hold any alliance with Artemus's friends," he said at last, pushing the words through his teeth while his eyes never left her face.

A burst of boldness, driven by desperation made Megan stand up. The master thief pulled back a little, not out of fear, but more from what seemed like distain. "Look, Garrett, I need information about something, something strange."

"It'll cost you."

Megan felt an angry flush slip across her cheeks. It was all fine and good to _play_ Garrett in the game, but when actually forced to deal with him, he made her skin crawl and his calloused sarcasm was irritating. "I've only got what you can see."

"That's not nearly enough."

"Then tell me where I can find Artemus so I can speak with him!"

Her voice bounced off the walls of the street, and quite abruptly, the thief pressed a gloved hand over her mouth, drawing her back into the shadowed corner. From out of no where came a chorus of moans and the stamping feet of a cluster of zombies, not walking together, exactly, but not walking singularly, either. Megan felt Garrett's hand slip away from her as he pulled out the flash bomb from the folds of his cloak. The zombies drew closer, their shuffling steps echoing down the road, trailed by the sound of their gurgling, rasping breaths.

The master thief's eyes were focused on them, and if she hadn't known he was there, Garrett might truly have been only a shadow himself. Not until the zombies slipped around the corner did the flash bomb return to the folds of the cloak.

A soft rumbling came from beside her, and Garrett was already halfway though his muttering when she figured out he was speaking. "So it looks like the Hammers were right after all…" he sounded almost amused. He turned his shadowed face back to her. "What kind of trouble are you in to want to find the Keepers so much?"

Megan frowned, but didn't move. Her ears still played tricks on her, making her hear the moans of the undead everywhere outside of the shadows. When she did reply, her voice was almost too soft to hear. "I don't usually hold much stock in the Keepers," she growled, "They've usually gotten me—you—into more trouble than it was worth. But if you won't help me, I should find Artemus. He'd know what brought me here, or no one would."

"Brought you…" The thief eyed her suspiciously. "What do you mean by that?"

Megan shifted under his sharp gaze, unsure of how much she should tell him. A voice in the back of her head reminded her that if anyone would care less that she was from another world, it would be Garrett. "Me and a friend, we're… not from around here. We aren't even supposed to be here, but it wasn't exactly our choice. It just happened." She explained only what she had to, mentioning how she and Daphne had suddenly appeared in the city, and their encounters with Raife. She was tempted to mention more, but she had a feeling that she should wait until she could speak with Artemus.

During this, the thief watched her with an unreadable expression, and when at last Megan stopped talking and gasped to fill her lungs with air again, he looked up at the skies, almost as if expecting something. "Well, this is interesting…" he muttered under his breath before looking back at her, as evenly as ever. "I don't hold much stock in Keepers, either, but I know when one of their prophesies start messing things up in the city." He turned, his black cloak falling about his shoulders in the same way it always had in the short videos intermixed with game play. A gloved hand waved her forward. "Artemus had better know what's going on. Follow me."

With that, he began down the street, and Megan had to run to keep up, glancing over her shoulders at every odd noise that might be a zombie waiting to ambush them. The master thief seemed to have a sixth sense about him, allowing him to know the direction they headed, regardless of all the twisting, turning roads they went down. Once or twice Garrett grabbed her wrist and pulled a hand free from where it clung to his cloak.

"Let go," he'd growl, waiting until Megan unknotted her hand from the cloth and waited for him to scope out the area around a corner or down a brightly lit street.

The only means of determining direction she had was the silhouette of a giant cathedral, arching up into the ever darkening sky. Now and then, the thief would glance upward, and a soft curse escaped his lips before he pulled the hood of his cloak down farther. Several times, they had to freeze in the shadows, waiting as a zombie or a city guard moved only two feet from them. Once the sound of footsteps had vanished, the thief set off at his long stride, vanishing into the shadows so completely that a few times Megan froze, unsure of where to go. Each time, his voice would hiss out of the dark, and if his tone were not so frightening, she might have taken a moment to giggle softly to herself. _If only Daphne were here!_ But the thought weighed heavily on her mind, and soon, Megan refused to think about her friend's fate. _I'll figure out if she's alive or not AFTER I find out what's going on._ It offered little consolation.

* * *

Daphne let the bulky Hammerite nudge her none too gently down the street, inexorably heading to the cathedral. Her stomach twisted inside her as she thought of all the game missions that took place in the mighty Hammerite cathedrals. In all of them, she remembered four words better than any others. "I will cudgel thee!" She shivered and cast a forlorn glance at Sherry. The bar maid was being surprisingly stoic as she was marched along, holding her head high and drawing her shoulders back as if the man holding onto her shoulders were her guardian, and not her captor.

"Thank the Builder, the cathedral is nye upon us," Brother Meldorn murmured as they marched, but something in the tone of his voice hinted that he was nervous to get inside its heavy doors. He glanced about as if expecting something to appear out of nowhere beside them.

"Nary a Pagan hath crossed mine sight," Daphne's guard muttered to his commander. Meldorn nodded solemnly.

"Mention not their name, Brother Ellard. Ears and eyes hath no telling to what they plan in yon black minds… what evil they plotteth against the Builder's loyal." Meldorn took a step into the courtyard, above which stretched the immense height of Gormalt Cathedral. Daphne swallowed hard, and caught a panicked look in Sherry's eyes.

The step carried him into the light of a street lamp, and before anyone, even Meldorn himself, knew what was going on, a cry echoed out of nowhere, the accent distinct. "Theres you be, Hammer man! Kills it, friends!"

Daphne reeled as the guard at her shoulders spun her away from him, brandishing his shining hammer as he and his companion raced around the corner where balls of green light crashed into the cathedral walls. Their war cry echoed even as their screams and the screams of dying Pagans blanketed the night in wild, chaotic noise. It seemed as if almost instantly, the doors of the cathedral flew back and a flood of red uniformed Hammerites flew into the fray. The commotion had lights up and down the street turning on, the startled cries that no doubt accompanied them were drowned out by the battle.

It took a few moments for the two girls to realize they were no longer captive, and Daphne motioned for Sherry to follow her as she turned to run down the street. Her feet stuck in place and she lost her balance, crashing to the ground with a curse. A vine had wrapped itself around her ankles, and it was still growing, twisting itself around her.

"Get it off! Get it off!" Daphne cried, and Sherry's eyes flew around for something sharp to start hacking the vine away with.

Even as she looked, another vine from out of the alley twisted around Daphne's arm, squeezing until she squeaked with pain. Sherry whirled around with a broken bottle she'd snatched from the ground and made her way toward the vines.

"Stop!" A chilling voice called from the shadows, and a figure in the darkness extended an arm toward the bar maid. With a hiss like cords being unreeled with sudden force, a tangle of vines flew out of the arm and engulfed Sherry even as she screamed. The bottle fell shattered to the ground as the vines from the figure's arms knotted around the girl's neck, tightening. The screams from the girl's throat cut off suddenly as her eyes rolled back and she blacked out. Only when she crumpled to the ground did the arm of vines withdraw back into the shadows.

"Sherry!" Daphne cried, no more able to move than a worm in a cocoon. Her arms pressed against her side, even as the vines continued to wrap around her, squeezing her.

The figure stepped out into the light, looking down with black, glittering eyes at the prisoner. Daphne's eyes widened as she stared as the woman's skin fading from green back to the color of flesh. "Victoria," she gasped, feeling her heart begin pounding like one of the Hammerite's mallets in her chest.

The woman froze and her black eyes burned. "How do you know about Victoria?" she asked, her voice polished and her grammar flawless, just like Victoria's had been before… The words caught in Daphne's throat as she shook her head in awe. Victoria was dead, wasn't she? The woman took that as stubbornness, for her arm twisted into the mass of vines and shot out like a viper, tangling around Daphne's throat. Her voice screeched like a thousand leeches, if leeches could speak. "HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT VICTORIA?"

Daphne choked, only vaguely aware of the innumerous figures suddenly standing all around them. "I met her once! I know how she helped Garrett!" The vines tightened.

"Dare you to speak of that man?" the woman's skin was peeling back again, exposing the plantlike flesh underneath. "How did you meet Victoria? What would she have wanted with a meat creature like you?"

"She saved everyone from the Mechanists! I saw it! I was there!" At last, the vines loosened, withdrawing back to the woman. Behind her, Daphne heard Sherry groan as the girl stirred out of unconsciousness.

The woman seemed to regain a little of her face, but her beady black eyes never faltered from Daphne's face. "But you are no more than a child," she said, almost to herself. "What movement of the Trickster is this? A yearling, the sap and heartwood still green beneath the skin…" Then, more frightening than ever before, the woman smiled, not showing her teeth. "My name is Adrianna. I am Victoria's successor." She looked up at the silent, cowed Pagans as they waited for her to give them orders. "Take this sapling and her sister friend to the Glen." Her eyes settled on Daphne once more. "Many things have changed, little shoot, since Victoria's time. I know not why the Trickster has brought you to us, but if it is his will…" She made a quick gesture and a few of the Pagans moved forward, tying Sherry's hands and feet to a wooden staff with leftover vines. Two others bent down and brushed aside the vines around Daphne. The crawling ropes had withered and died at Adrianna's gesture, no more than crumbling decay, now. The two helped her to her feet, giving her a strange look of awe as the woman walked slowly over to her and laid a hand on her shoulder. "If it be his will…" Daphne heard Adrianna murmur once more, before the whole cluster began moving into the dark streets. The bodies of the murdered Hammerites littered the courtyard, and it was all Daphne could do to keep from throwing up on the ground.

_Megan was right, _she thought. _It's no longer just a game…_


	4. In Which A Challenge and A Curse Appear

Author's Note: Just to clarify so that everyone knows, this isn't really set in any particular game. It uses whatever information can be gleaned about the Thief Universe from all three games: The Dark Project, The Metal Age, and Deadly Shadows. I personally don't count Thief Gold as its own game, though some ideas may be pulled from it. Enjoy!

Chapter 4

"Artemus." Garret waited as the Keeper stifled a gasp at the sudden noise, and then turned around calmly, possessing all the dignity Megan attributed the Keepers with.

"I wasn't expecting you." The tall man's eyes flickered down to Megan. "Who is this?" A faint smile spread across the Keeper's face. "Garret, I always saw you as a confirmed bachelor."

"Don't get smart with me, Artemus. I'm not in the mood," the thief growled, but to Megan's ears it didn't sound completely unfriendly… not completely… "This girl says she knows you."

"Does she?" Artemus turned his attention to Megan. His eyes ran over her with a thoughtful expression as they lingered on her face. "Have we met before?"

"In a matter of speaking," Megan said, stepping forward. "I know of you, and have seen you before, sort of…"

"You've seen a Keeper when he did not intend for you to see him?" The Keeper's eyes flickered up to Garret. "This girl sounds like you, Garret."

"I don't care what she sounds like." The thief glared at her. "You said you knew Artemus. I wouldn't have bothered to bring you here if you'd mentioned that you only knew of him!"

"Exactly! And I do know Artemus, he just doesn't know me!" Megan growled back. The flash in both their eyes made the Keeper smile faintly before laying a hand on Megan's shoulder.

"Certainly, certainly. Now, I'm curious to know why you needed to see me so desperately that you had to trick a master thief into bringing you."

"She didn't trick me," Garret snarled, glowering as usual. "She lied. That's different."

"I did not!"

Artemus waved a hand at the thief, who begrudgingly fell silent. "What is your name?"

"Megan Johnson, and I need to talk to you right away."

"Well, go ahead. I'm listening." The Keeper stood, waiting. Megan glanced over at Garret.

"I need to speak with you alone, sir."

At that, the master thief flared up with a growl. "Anything you have to tell Artemus, you'll have to tell me. I've got an interest to see where you come from, it could be important."

"I think you had better tell me what you know, Garret," Artemus said with a frown. "If it is important enough to you to hear what a young girl has to say, than it's certainly important enough for me."

Garret shifted, and crossed his arms as he stood in the dimmer shadows. "The Hammers contacted me earlier tonight. Said something was coming that would raise chaos in the city—in the world. Said the dead would walk about the city and everything would be covered in darkness. You know the Hammers. That's all they'd tell me." The way he shifted made Megan wonder if he was holding something back, but she suddenly found herself under Artemus's eyes again.

"And you? What did you have to tell me?"

"Well, I came to you because Garret didn't seem to want to help me," she began, trying to hide the shiver she got from the theif's chilling glare. "I don't even know how to explain…"

"Do your best, Megan. Start from the beginning."

"Okay…" And she began.

* * *

Daphne woke up slowly, blinking the dappled sunlight into her eyes as she sat up, her head whirling with fading dream images. "Man, Megan. I had the scariest dream. I dreamed we had somehow gotten stuck in the game, and Garret was there, and the Pagans, and"

"Good morning, little sprout," Adrianna said as she glided into the grassy clearing. Daphne started with shock as her gaze flew about, trying to remember what was going on. Overhead, the sun peered through the leaves of several large trees. The grass was brilliant green, greener than any yard well tended back in the real world. Adrianna looked less frightening in the light, but the memory of her temper kept Daphne from letting her guard down.

"Did you sleep well?" The woman looked human for the most part as she knelt beside the pallet of animal skins Daphne had spent the night on. "You look well rested."

"Thank you, I am. Where's Sherry?"

"Still sleeping. Tell me, sapling, how did you come to our world? You clearly know much about us and this place, especially about Victoria. Tell me, how did she die? Was she brave and strong like all our legends tell?"

Adrianna watched her with soft eyes, but Daphne couldn't help shivering. Those eyes could turn beady black in an instant, and her skin could shift to green so quickly she wouldn't have any forewarning. She must be careful. "Yes, she died well. If it weren't for her and-" Daphne bit off mentioning Garret, remembering the cold reception that name had received the night before. "If it weren't for her, I'm sure everything would have been destroyed by Karras's evil plot."

"Karras," Adrianna hissed the name and her eyes looked dark. Daphne braced herself, but the Pagan leader glanced down at her and chuckled gently, patting her shoulder as if to comfort her. The touch sent chills down Daphne's spine. "You know much of this, little shoot. Like the rings of a tree, you remember the ages past. Come with me, now. I shall find you something to allay the complaints of your empty stomach."

The woman took Daphne by the hand in her cool grasp and helped her to her feet, leading her across the clearing. "We shall have to find you some new clothes as well. These will not do for you any longer, now that you are one of us."

Daphne's heart jumped to her throat. "One of you?"

Adrianna smiled, and it looked strangely wolfish. "Of course, little sprout. Why else would the Trickster send you? Come, food has been prepared. I will have some new clothes made for you immediately. Only the finest bark cloth will do for you, messenger of our Lord of Chaos." Suddenly, her grip felt like ironwood, and her smile seemed as sharp as thorns. Daphne shivered and looked up at the sky, her silent plea to Megan whisked away on the wings of the wind.

Adrianna led her to another clearing where a long wooden table was set for a feast. In the center of the spread was a roasted animal of some sort, giving off a scent that made Daphne's stomach grumble. At the sound, the lady of the woods laughed and pushed her toward a seat near the head of the table.

"So hungry! Has the Woodsie Lord not seen to your health? How long have you been with us, little sprout?" Daphne was too distracted by the heavenly food in front of her to think about answering either question. Her hands were already on the loaf of bread steaming on her plate when she realized Adrianna was still watching her, sitting silently at the head of the table. At her hesitation, the woman smiled gently, "Go ahead and eat. The bread is delicious."

When was the last time she'd had something to eat? Her stomach pinched, and she could feel herself trembling with hunger. _I have to eat something, or I won't be able to find Sherry and get out of here… _She tore off a corner of the bread and bit into it. It really was delicious, with faint hints of parsley and chives flooding her as she chewed, but when she swallowed, it felt as if the bread was pulling itself down her throat. The glint of triumph in Adrianna's eyes sent a chill through Daphne. "What's it made of?" she asked.

"My own special recipe. It was given to me by the Woodsie Lord." The woman watched with almost too much interest as Daphne lowered the loaf. There was something very strange about it. She could feel her stomach tingling. _Good job, Darson! She probably just POISONED you!_ The tingling grew, and it seemed as if the air had grown two or three degrees warmer. Sweat formed on her brow. Something behind her let out a warning hiss, and Daphne dropped the bread to the plate.

"Thank you, but I'm not all that hungry after all." At that moment, her stomach gurgled and twisted, and Adrianna's eyes narrowed dangerously as she looked toward the woods.

"Very well. Perhaps later." Then the woman stood up and strode across the clearing, vanishing into the trees without a trace.

Daphne sat for a moment, her hand on her stomach as she tried to settle it. A crunching sound from the table drew her attention, and she let out a squeak as the food morphed into vines, coiling around the table as they grew at a furious rate. Scrambling back, she watched as the whole table became a mass of wriggling vines like snakes, staring as the green tendons grew brown and turned to powered dust, blown away a second later. Overhead, dark brown clouds like smog curled menacing fingers toward the forest canopy, a peal of thunder made Daphne shudder.

"I have to find Sherry," she whispered, catching a faint movement in the trees of something she wasn't entire sure was human. The groan of tree branches moving without the aide of wind set a coil of fear between her shoulder blades. Her stomach twisted again, and she doubled over, shivering. _This is really, REALLY bad. _ _We have to get out of here… I don't know what Adrianna's planning, but it isn't good. _

The twisting stopped, and she felt a sudden flood of energy. It was as if she'd slept for weeks and just awoken, fully renewed. Standing up, Daphne shivered. "Maybe the bread's supposed to do that…" She didn't half believe it, but the pain was gone, and she didn't seem to be dying. _Why would Adrianna try to kill me anyway? She seems to think the Trickster sent me. _She shivered at the name. _He didn't, did he? _With a furious shake of her head, she banished the idea. "I have to find Sherry. Then we're getting out of here." With that, she set off on her search, hoping the barmaid was still alive and well when she found her.

* * *

"Are you saying that there's another world outside of ours… that watches and manipulates the events of this world?" Megan drew back at Garret's snapping tone and clenching fists. "You and this friend of yours—are you some kind of…" The thief's lip pulled back in a sneer of disgust and anger.

Artemus stood quietly, watching. His eyes hadn't left Megan's face for the whole story, and even now, he watched her with an expression of deep thought. Knowing she was going to get no protection from the Keeper, Megan squared her jaw to face off with the master thief herself. Inside, every nerve was trembling at the man's fury. "We didn't have any choice! In our world, we didn't even know you were real!"

"Not real?" Garret took a step toward her, looking ready to rip her stomach out with the dagger at his side. All of a sudden, perhaps seeing his own reflection in her wide eyes, the thief cooled off and turned a cold shoulder to her, keeping his chin up as he looked down his nose at her. "I am no _puppet_." He spat the last word as he pulled his cloak around him and turned to leave.

"Wait, Garret." Artemus held up a hand. "Wait until I've looked through some of the books to see how this all fits in. I think we both know that there's more to this, and if you leave now I might not be able to help you."

The thief looked the Keeper in the eyes with his trademark arrogance. "I think you overestimate your influence, Keeper. I don't need your help." With a snap of his cape, Garret stepped into the shadows.

"Wait!" Megan stepped toward the shadows, but the Keeper's hand fell on her shoulder.

"He's already gone." Artemus turned her to look at him. "I'm going to take you to the Keeper Compound. You'll be safe there. Hopefully I'll be able to find something in the books that can help you, but I can guarantee nothing."

The girl glanced back at the shadows, wishing she could feel eyes on her from them, but there was nothing. Only darkness. "What about Daphne? I can't just leave her!"

"I will have some people keep their eyes open for her. If she's anywhere in the city, we'll find her." The Keeper turned and began leading her toward an apparently blank wall of stone. All of a sudden, a symbol of blue light appeared on the stones overhead. Megan stiffed a gasp as she stared at it.

"A glyph!"

Artemus whirled around, watching her with surprise. "You can see it?" At her nod, he frowned thoughtfully. "There is much more to this than I had suspected. You have the ability to be a Keeper, then? I had not expected this. I hope the books tell more of what is to come, for I fear it will be a time of great turmoil and change. The True Keeper will have a part in this, no doubt."

"You mean Garret."

A flicker of an eyebrow raise. "By this point I shouldn't be surprised by your knowledge of the prophecies. Well, if this is how it must be…" Artemus seemed hesitant before leading her through the glyph door into the Keeper Compound.

Megan had seen it before, with it's arching ceilings and walls of books. She'd been there, stolen trinkets from them while delving into the translator's private rooms. She shivered as she recognized faces, still uncertain whether or not they would recognize her. Artemis kept a quick pace, hurriedly leading her toward the private bedrooms she remembered Garrett residing in at one point. When they came to the guard, the Keeper whispered a few words to the man before leading her to the door. Megan had the distinct feeling that the man was noting every aspect of her face.

"Remain in here until I come for you," Artemis said in a low voice. "I'm not certain yet how the other Keepers will react to you. We've never had anything like this before." With that, he closed the door and left Megan alone in the room. That is, she thought she was alone.

A young woman with a bulging stomach sat up from where she lay on one of the beds. Megan stared at her. The woman was familiar, even if the appearance of pregnancy wasn't. "I'm sorry, I didn't know there was anyone else here," Megan stammered, shifting uncomfortably under the woman's eyes.

"That's alright," the woman sighed, laying back down. "I was just hoping…" She looked over at Megan. "Have you come to seek shelter with the Keepers?"

"In a way, yes. I suppose so." Megan's feet carried her over to the bed beside the pregnant woman, and she sat down, folding her hands in her lap. The woman was so familiar. But where had she seen her? "I came for help, at any rate."

"You and I are in the same situation, then," the woman sighed. "I came to seek the Keeper's aide when my husband was arrested for trying to get some medicine for me. I've been sick recently, and we didn't have any money. So Basso thought he might try—"

"Basso!" Megan cried, making the poor woman jump. "That's where I've seen you before! You're Jenivere! Garrett helped you escape from where you worked as a servant!"

The woman paled. "How do you know this?"

_I have to watch myself. These people don't remember me, and so far, their reactions to me explaining that their whole world is just a game weren't very good. _"I know Garrett," Megan stammered. "That's all."

"You know the Master Thief?" Jenivere whispered, leaning forward eagerly. "He is the one I was trying to contact through the Keepers! When Basso was arrested, he sent me a private note telling me to contact the Keepers and to find Garrett! Do you know where he is? Do you know if he'd help my dear Basso escape?"

The woman's excitement made Megan lean back, as if the velocity of the words could blow her across the room. "I'm sorry, I don't know where he is…" The woman's face fell, and she laid back on the bed.

"I had hoped the Keepers had found him. I'd hoped that when you entered, you were Garrett." Tears pearled up in the corners of her eyes, slipping down her cheeks. "They want to hang him. My poor, dear Basso. I've been here for a week, and the Keepers have done nothing."

Megan felt her stomach knot up. _Artemis was RIGHT THERE with Garrett! If he knew about Basso, why hadn't he said anything about it to Garrett?_ She wasn't sure the thief would have cared, let alone done anything about it. Then again, Garrett did like flustering the city guard, and this was the perfect opportunity for it. _If he could stand helping someone!_ She thought bitterly. "I wish there was something I could do to help," she sighed, then froze. Who had played Garrett all these years? _I'm as close to Garrett as anyone else! If I break Basso out, then he'll owe me a favor. And it'd be something I could hold over Garrett's head. He might reconsider helping me if I could say I'd broken someone out of prison!_ "Jenivere," she said quickly, "I'll rescue Basso."

"No, I couldn't possibly accept that!" Jenivere cried, putting a hand over her mouth. "I would feel horrible if you risked your life! No, I could ask it of Garrett because I'd know he could take care of himself."

Megan's face burned. _I've been through everything that blasted thief has been. I can do anything he can do._ The memory of her and Daphne's sad attempt to use a rope arrow came to mind, but she shook it off. _The only reason that didn't go smoothly was because I didn't have a bow, and Raife wouldn't lend it to us. Blast him! There's another worthless thief! It's about time I stop waiting around to do something. I have the skills, I'm not going to just sit around. Daphne and I have to get home, and I'm going to do something about it. _ Frowning, Megan stood up, still facing Jenivere as she prepared yet another lie. _This is getting to be a habit,_ she scolded herself. _After this, no more lies. Half-truths, maybe. But no more deliberate lies._ "I happen to have a few connections who might know where Garrett is. I'll send them a message to give to him. I don't think the Keepers particularly care what happens to Basso. They're a little distracted with their own problems."

"Please tell Garrett to hurry. I don't know when they plan to hang my love. And thank you." Jenivere reached up and caught Megan's hand, squeezing it tightly before letting the young girl go.

First, she tiptoed to the door, cracking it open only to see the guard startle and frown at her. She closed the door softly and frowned. _That won't work… There was a glyph… somewhere in this room…_

Megan slipped to the wall, moving slowly until a block of stone caught her eye. _The sliding wall! Of course!_ She stepped onto the slab and felt it sink below her. The stone bookcase slid open, exposing a bright blue glyph on the stones. With a smile, she watched the wall fade away into the smoky blue path of glyph magic. _Ability to be a Keeper, huh? Well, let's just put this to good use._ Behind her, she heard Jenivere gasp, but the sound was left far behind her as she stepped through and vanished.

* * *

The pagans stood in a ring around the still figure on the ground. Daphne came toward them, doing her best not to run to Sherry's side. One of the pagans, the leader of the guards, stepped forward, "Woodsie Lord Messenger," he whispered in awe, "Helpsies you need?"

"I want to speak with that girl," she replied, trying to keep her posture as arrogant as possible. If they were fully convinced that she was sent by their god, surely they'd obey her.

The pagan shook his shaggy head. "Askies any other thing, Woodsie Lord Servant. Speaksies you cannot."

"Why not?" Daphne demanded. Her stomach started tingling again. It hurt, but she wasn't about to stop now. _Megan never shows her fear! I have to be brave!_ "I demand to see the prisoner!"

Three other pagans stepped up behind their leader, blocking her way. From inside, the twisting, knotting pain boiled up as she got angrier. _I just want to make sure she's alright!_ The pain was overwhelming, and with a cry of anger and frustration, Daphne dropped to one knee, clutching her stomach. The pagan man stepped toward her, a hand reaching out in concern.

"Get away from me!" Daphne yelled, but her voice sounded strange to her ears. It sounded as if there were more voices than her own mingling together to say the same things. Inside, the knot grew larger.

The pagan man stopped, staring at her. "Getsies Adrianna—"

"No!" The voices, mingling together. She could hear the creaking of wood in her ears. She threw her hand out toward the pagan who had begun running toward the woods.

There was a hiss, like rope on rope, she could feel the man's skin in her grip, could feel… Daphne looked up from where she crouched and screamed. Her arm had become a writhing length of twisting vines, at the end they twisted around the pagan, crushing him to death. She let him go instinctively, and the vines whipped back to her, shaping back into an arm of green. Daphne looked over at her other arm, at her knees, everything was green. The knot inside her sent a tingling spike down her spine, and she doubled over again, pressing her forehead into the grass, pulling up a clod of it in each hand as she clamped her teeth.

Abruptly, the tingling ceased. Breathing hard, Daphne began shaking. _What's going on? What WAS that? I'm not—she didn't…_

"Mistress," the pagan leader whispered, bending down to lay a hand on her back.

"Don't touch me!" Daphne screamed, scrambling away from him. Looking down, she could see that her arms were flesh again, her voice was her own. With a sigh of relief, she tried to control her shaking. When she glanced up again, she saw that Sherry was awake. The barmaid stared at her in terror, mouth open, eyes almost buldging out of her head. She couldn't speak, but her lips were easy enough to read.

"You're one of them," she mouthed silently.

"I'm not!" Daphne cried. "I'm not, I swear!" The tingling was starting again. _No, no, please no! This can't be happening to me! I'm not supposed to be a pagan, I'm supposed to be a thief! I'm supposed to be with Megan back at her house! I'm not supposed to be like Adrianna! _The knot tightened in her stomach. She could hear the crackling of her skin turning to green, felt her vision shift as her eyes turned black. _I don't want to be a monster!_ The pagans pulled back, terrified as she stood up. _I don't want to stay here! I want to find Megan! I want to leave this place! And I want Sherry to stop looking at me like that!_ With a shriek that was not her voice, the vines whipped out from her arms and plowed the pagans down. She could feel the vines wrapping around them, throwing them against trees, up into the air, anywhere to get them out of the way. The vines had a life of their own, and as the tingling grew, she felt herself slipping into another mind. _I am a plant. I am one with the forest. The Woodsie Lord is my Father. _

"NO!" Daphne threw herself to the ground, the vines twisted back, the world spun in circles. "I'm not one of them!" she shouted, and there was no other voice. Just hers. Her arms were normal again, her skin was flesh again. Her eyes were back to normal. She shook all over, and before she knew it, she was crying. "It's not supposed to be like this!" she moaned. "I'm supposed to be the good guy! I don't want to be a monster!"

The grass pressed against her forehead as she cried, smearing dirt across her brow. She was afraid to look up and see Sherry frozen in terror. She was afraid to find all the pagans scattered unconscious around the clearing. She just wanted to go home.

"Daphne?" A hand settled on her shoulder, and though Sherry jumped back when Daphne raised her head, the barmaid did her best to hide her fear. "What's happened to you? What have they done to you?"

Daphne tried to reply, but the words stuck in her throat, and all she could do was start crying all over again. For a few moments, Sherry stayed back, watching as if to be certain Daphne's skin wouldn't suddenly mutate again, but when it didn't, she came over and put her hand on the girl's shoulder.

"We'll find a cure, I promise!" she whispered. "I know a guy who has a cure for everything. We'll go to him, he'll fix you."

"You have to go," Daphne choked. "Adrianna will come, I'm sure of it. She can probably sense where I am. She can probably tell when I… when I…" Daphne shook at the thought of her arms extending in a mass of vines.

"I'm not going to leave you here!" Sherry growled. "Just don't do that again, ok?"

Daphne nodded, though she resisted when Sherry grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet. "Come on!" Sherry barked, pulling her toward the edge of the clearing. Through the forest on the other side of the grassy area, they heard the crunching footsteps of Adrianna's tree minion coming to check on the commotion. Fear stabbed the girls in the heart, and without any encouragement, Daphne dashed after Sherry into the woods.


	5. In Which Daphne and Megan Become Thieves

"I'm a horrible person," Megan whispered under her breath as she slipped out of a dark house, her arms filled with prized items. "I can't believe I'm doing this." Across the road, a shadowed overhang with a good amount of hiding room called to the guilty anxiety. With the blood pounding in her ears, she couldn't be sure if she heard footsteps or not. Every shadow looked like a guard, every click and hum of the nightscape sent goose bumps up and down her arms. _Just go!_

Dashing across the street and through the light, Megan ducked into the welcoming shadows of the overhang. Only when her heart beat slowed enough for her to hear clearly did she let out a sigh of relief. There were no footsteps anywhere. She sighed again, running a hand through her bangs before setting down the supplies she'd snitched. A purse filled with gold coins was quickly set aside as an essential, and Megan quickly pulled it open, dropping two rings into the sack with a clink. Drawstrings pulled tight once more, she quickly moved on to the next items of necessity, a pair of trousers, a belt, and a regular tunic. She stood up and paused, straining her ears for any sound that would betray a passerby. There was nothing. Grabbing up the short dagger from among the stolen items, Megan slit the ties in the back of the dress and let the bodice and skirts fall to her bare ankles. In a flash, motivated by terrified modesty, the tunic was thrown over her head and the trousers pulled up before so much as a moment had passed. With the belt fastened tight around her narrow waist, Megan undid the ties of a sack she'd grabbed that would be able to carry most of the things she needed. Into this sack, she stuffed two flash bombs, the two health potions she'd carried around from her earlier crime, the speed potion from the same place, and a newly prized pair of orbs which had a strange greenish tinge to them. These she put on top before pulling the drawstrings on the sack closed and throwing the strap over her shoulder. Then she picked up the purse and the dagger, sliding the weapon into the leather sheath attached to the belt, and tying on the purse by its drawstrings just behind the blade. When she was content the purse and sack would make little noise while moving, she sank to her knees and sighed, fighting off a new round of shivers unrelated to the cool air.

_I can't believe I'm doing this. I'm a criminal. A premeditated criminal. I've stolen these things from someone who might need them. _Megan shook her head with a frown, glowering into the shadows around her. "I'll make it up to them somehow. I can't think about this right now, I've got to get to Pavelock prison and rescue Basso before they hang him." With a final sigh, Megan stood up wearily and looked around her. The streets didn't look anything like they did in the game, it was so real. It could have been any medieval city in history for all she could tell them apart, and for all she could recognize. The thought that she might have wandered into a part of the city the game hadn't allowed the players to go settled a cold chill in her stomach, but she did her best to force it down and step out into the streets. There had to be something that would help her locate herself and find her way to the prison.

Her footsteps were the only sound echoing through the streets which made her very self-conscious, ducking into shadows whenever they were available so that she could stop and listen for movement. It was as if the city were dead for all the noise its occupants made. Even the occasional howl of a dog made Megan breathe a sigh of relief before dashing to the next hiding spot.

Down the road, a sign creaked in the faint breeze. Megan recognized the blue bird painted on its battered surface: the sign of the city guard. A smile flashed across her face for a moment as a world of possibilities opened up. _They have to have a map or something that will tell me where Pavelock is! And they might have some other useful things as well. _After such a greedy thought, Megan quickly scolded herself. _When I get back home, I'll take all the stuff I don't need anymore, and I'll sell it all in a garage sale, I swear. You can't take just anything for nothing._ But somehow, in the back of her mind, the excitement lingered, and she had a hard time keeping the smirk from her face as she dashed down the street toward the sign.

* * *

The streets of the city, while dark, were hardly quiet, as a faint whimpering echoed against the walls of the tall, sleeping buildings. Two small figures stood in the middle of a side road, struggling against each other.

"Stop moping!" Sherry growled. "We'll get this fixed, but you've got to keep walking! We can't stop now! When those pagans find out we're missing-"

"I am a pagan now," Daphne sighed as she looked at her feet. Her shoulders drooped, even as the barmaid tugged on her arm, forcing her to take step after step forward.

It hadn't been hard to get through the forest, the terror of the things that lived within it had kept them running, but once the stone walls of the city surrounded them, the fear of diabolical plants seemed far away.

"Stop that! You're _not_ a pagan!"

"Well what am I then, Sherry? Tell me!" Daphne yanked herself free and crossed her arms, glowering as fiercely as she could. "I'm not even supposed to BE here!"

At this, the barmaid put on a frightening face of her own and planted her fists on her hips. "Well, you ARE here! And from the looks of it, there's nothing we can do about it until we find Garrett, which means we need to find something to cure you!" Sherry snapped. "If I recall correctly, that psycho vine lady didn't seem to react to him too well, and I'm sure he wouldn't react well to someone like her either!"

"What if it can't be cured?" With her fingers twined together, shoulders hunched, and her eyes wide and a hint watery, Daphne looked more like a sad puppy than anything else.

This time, Sherry smiled. "Oh, don't worry about that. Jack's got everything. If there's anything that can help you, even a tiny bit, he'll have it."

The other girl sighed and nodded. "Ok. Let's go, then."

"Right! It's about time!" Sherry crossed her arms and began marching down the street. Suddenly, she stopped and looked back. "Do we have any money?"

Daphne shook her head, but, enlivened by the short pep talk, a mischievous thought glittered in her eyes. "I have an idea how we could get some…"

"Oh?" Sherry lifted an eyebrow. "And how's that?"

Daphne turned her head slowly to look down the street, where a lone civilian was strolling along innocently. The slow spreading smile Daphne wore made Sherry lift a skeptical eyebrow. "You're not serious," she asked, but Daphne was very serious.

"You go lure him over here-"

"Are you KIDDING ME? Use myself as BAIT?"

"-and I'll whack him over the head with… um…" Daphne glanced about and spotted a few pieces of a wooden fence that looked as if it'd come off without much trouble. She cackled, running over to pull a board free. "This will work!" she said, holding it up above her as if to examine the quality of the wood.

"I'm not doing it."

"Come on. It'll be fun."

"Why do _I_ have to lure him over?"

Daphne's eyes only had to flicker down, absorbing Sherry's low bosomed dress to get her reasoning across, and with a burning face, Sherry scowled. "Fine. I'll do it. But only because Jack doesn't give anything for free." With that, she tossed her hair over her shoulders and sauntered out into the street toward the young man with the bulging purse.

She batted her eyelashes at the poor fellow, completely unaware of the coming headache he would have. "Hey there, mister," Sherry said, putting on her best impression of a jaded bar wench. "That arm of yours looks lonely with no woman to cling to it."

The poor fool chuckled at this, as did Daphne, who had to press a hand over her mouth to keep from bursting into laughter. She pressed into the shadows of the alley, hoping the fellow hadn't heard her snicker. He hadn't. Instead, as Sherry swaggered, rolling her hips from side to side with the seductive sway of a cobra, he followed her, awestruck, jaw hanging open. As she passed the shadowed hiding place, she gave Daphne a piercing glare that telepathically growled, "Don't you EVER make me do this again."

With a deep breath and a resounding crack, Daphne slammed the board down on the man's head. Perhaps more by luck than anything else, the man crumpled and collapsed onto the stones. Sherry dropped down beside him and quickly slit the strings of his purse. She pawed it open and sat counting the coins for a moment, only to let out a heavy sigh before looking up. Daphne was still splitting her attention between the board in her hands and the man on the ground.

"I-I just mugged someone!" she giggled. "This is GREAT!"

"Yeah, well, he wasn't as well off as his purse would suggest." Sherry held up a handkerchief, which she'd pulled from the purse. "He padded it, stupid fool. He deserved what he got for being such an idiot."

"So we didn't get much?" Daphne bent down to get a better look at the coins. "How much can that get us?"

Sherry gave her a look and then shook her head. "I forgot—you're not from here. Basically, forty gold coins will buy us nothing."

"Oh, that's right," the other said with a thoughtful nod, "regular arrows alone cost fifteen coins apiece." She glanced over at Sherry's shocked expression. "I saw it somewhere… At any rate, we're going to need more than this."

"I hate to agree with you," Sherry sighed, "but it's true. Even being one of Jack's friends, he'd never be so cheap as to sell us something for only forty."

Daphne stood up. "Ok. All we need to do is steal a few more purses…"

"I'm not putting myself on display again," Sherry growled. "No way, no how."

* * *

Warm light poured from the doorway, and Megan could hear muffled voices from inside. She slowed her gait as she drew near the door, and carefully stepped into the shadows beside the window. By tilting her head and standing on her toes, she could just see inside the guard house, confident she couldn't be seen back.

The two guards stood idly in front of Garret's face painted with black ink on a parchment pinned to the wall. They were both swordsmen. Megan cursed silently. It wouldn't be hard to use up one of her precious gas bombs and knock them both out, but she resented having to use one before she'd even arrived at the prison. There would surely be better opportunities for it later. Then again, if she so much as sneezed, she'd have two swords on her tail, and with her limited knowledge of the city's layout, could find herself walled up in an alley, facing death.

_Better safe than sorry. This isn't a game anymore, I could die. And I'm pretty certain there's no "restart" option. _With a heavy sigh, Megan slipped her sack to the ground and undid the strings. Carefully lifting out one of the green-tinted metal spheres, she peered back through the window. _Here goes,_ she thought, quickly hefting the gas bomb into the room.

She ducked down into the shadows as the sphere struck the ground and both guards let out a yell of surprise. With a sudden, explosive hiss, a cloud of green gas billowed out the window over her head, forcing Megan to leap away, her hand pressed over her mouth and nose. Her eyes stung from the gas, even after it dissipated, and the guard station was silent.

_I think that did it,_ she thought, still afraid to open her mouth for fear that trace amounts of the gas might be strong enough to knock her out as well. The thought of it made her stifle a giggle, imagining how foolish she'd look passed out in the middle of the street, when the guards came to and found her. The thought of them finding her, however, sent a spike of urgency through her, and she hurried into the guard station.

The two men had fallen where they stood, completely unconscious and breathing calmly. Megan uncovered her nose enough to sniff for the intoxicating vapors, and finding no strange scent remaining, let out the air she'd held in her lungs. A few useful items—two more flash bombs and a healing potion, along with a couple of arrows—lay on the shelf to the side, and Megan quickly picked up everything but the arrows. "I'll wait until I have a bow," she muttered. "Then I'll come back for them." The thought made her feel sick and she shook her head. "I'm here for a map, or something, not for more stuff." But she hung on to the flash bombs and the potion.

She found a map, alright, pinned beneath Garret's wanted poster, and marked with his latest sightings. Megan quickly pulled it off the wall and folded it, smiling to herself. "This could be useful later, too, if I need to second guess where Garret might spend his time," she whispered. _Jerk though he is,_ she added silently.

With items in hand, Megan bolted back outside and placed the new items in the sack, save for the map which she kept in hand. When everything was tightly secured in the bag, she slipped the strap over her shoulder and opened the map. She was already a fair distance from the hidden Keeper Compound, which put her not far from South Quarter, where the large insignia of the city guard was stamped on the map with the words "Pavelock Prison" written in fine script beneath it. From the locations of the little red Xs all across the city, Garret avoided the place like the plague.

Megan turned around, pinning down her present location from the landmark and building indicators on the map. She wasn't far at all. In fact, a few blocks down from the guard station would lead her right around the corner to Pavelock. _I feel so stupid,_ she thought, frowning as she tucked the map into her belt. _It's practically right in front of me!_

With the streets still empty, it took no time at all to come to the corner, and Megan instinctively ducked into a shadow before peering around to scope out the scene. Down the way, she could see the main entrance of the prison, but there were no guards standing near it, which made her nervous. _Why wouldn't someone stand guard outside? Then again, who would be foolish enough to enter a prison from the OUTSIDE? I don't think they often have a wave of people coming in the front doors unless they're escorted._

Still, Megan was very cautious as she rounded the corner and inspected the situation. It had been a long time since she'd been in Pavelock, and that time, she'd been more concerned with getting out than getting in. From that experience, though, she didn't recall waltzing out through the front doors. _There must be another way in…_ But where? So far as she could tell from the outside, there were no other entrances besides the main doors.

"Think!" she scolded herself. "It's got to be near by."

Keeping her ears attentive for the sound of anyone coming near, Megan quickly walked up and down the street, examining the prison walls. The first search turned up nothing, which wasn't surprising, considering Megan's inability to see most things directly in front of her eyes, but on the second trip back, she spotted a strange grate hidden behind a push-cart propped up against the wall. Upon closer inspection, she found that the grate not only opened, but that there was a ladder leading down from the opening.

"Jackpot!"

With a grin, she twisted around and began lowering herself into the bowels of Pavelock prison, with only a faint memory of what she would find inside.

* * *

Four unconscious bodies later, Daphne stood gloating over a small fortune, contained within several bulging purses she held in her hands. Sherry stood scowling in the corner, visibly struggling to keep back the sharp words her tongue wanted to fling out.

"Will this be enough?" Daphne asked.

"Enough?" Sherry barked. "We could have stopped after the second guy! He had those rings and that necklace too!" Sherry crossed her arms and sent her burning glare in the direction of the tubby, sleeping man, one of the few piled in the corner.

"Aw, come on," the other grinned. "That wouldn't have been nearly as much fun."

"You're starting to find this too amusing, you know. As I recall, you're not really a thief, but you're sure doing a good job at fooling me, right now." The barmaid walked over to take a peek at the loot. "We should get going. The city guards may be stupid, but they're not so dumb that they won't see four bodies in the street. I'd rather avoid being caught, thanks very much."

Daphne nodded her agreement. "Let's get to that friend of yours. I want this mess taken care of as soon as possible. Megan is still somewhere around the city, alone, and after seeing all these guys come onto you, I don't think it's too safe for a lone girl."

Sherry rolled her eyes. "I was _trying_ to lure them over. I doubt she's doing the same."

The other chuckled at the thought of Megan rolling her hips in her baggy jeans and tee-shirt. Actually, even if she'd been dressed like Sherry, it would have been preposterous. Megan was as modest as they come, quick to blush, and quick to get angry if she felt uncomfortable. Thinking of her friend, Daphne felt a twinge of loneliness. As wonderful as Sherry was, and as helpful as she'd been, Daphne couldn't help but wish Megan were there. It would have made everything a little less scary. _Then again, I'll bet anything she wouldn't have approved of mugging four guys in an alley._ Daphne rolled her eyes, which caught Sherry's attention.

"What?" the barmaid demanded, instinctively going on her guard.

"Nothing. Let's get going. Lead the way."

The two girls moved swiftly into the street, running as softly as they could. Behind them, near the alley, footsteps echoed off the stone walls of the watchful buildings as a lone city guard strolled along, humming to himself. He came around the corner and paused, taking his time to glance back the way he'd come and the way Daphne and Sherry had run. Then he looked down the alley.

Sherry was quick on her feet, and Daphne struggled to keep up and still be unnoticed by the few civilians strolling along. With all the turns the barmaid took, Daphne was surprised that the girl might actually know where she was going. Wherever "Jack" was, he did not reside in Black Alley, which made Daphne suspicious. If he was a man of good repute, would he think twice about turning them in? _Then again, would any member of Black alley think twice about it? And they might just turn us in to people more frightening than the city guard, like the pagans…_ The thought made her shudder. Adrianna's voice was too familiar to her ears for her to want to hear it again any time soon.

Down a few more dark streets, around several unexpected turns, Sherry finally stopped in front of a rundown little shop tucked between two three-story stone buildings. The little place looked too dark to be open, but the barmaid didn't hesitate to push open the door and go inside without so much as a knock. Daphne followed, but not so eagerly.

The inside of the place looked more like a pack-rat's nest than a shop. Things of all sorts were piled one on top of another nearly up to the ceiling, and everything looked precariously balanced like a matured game of Jenga. Sherry sidestepped amongst the articles and made her way over to the surprisingly clutter-less counter at the far side of the shop. She rang the silver bell sitting idly on the wood surface, and from back in the unseen room behind the shop, they heard shuffling. A rather short, scrawny man came bolting out of the back, still dressed in what looked like his sleeping clothes, complete with cap.

"Sorry to wake you, Jack," Sherry began, but the little man beamed and held up his hands eagerly.

"No, no trouble at all, my dear! It's good to see you! After the incident at the bar, I was afraid something might have happened to you."

Sherry scoffed and tossed a glare in Daphne's direction. "Well, things have gotten a little hectic since then…"

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Jack asked. His voice was a little too high for Daphne's liking, and his stature was a little too short, but he had a nice young face, and looked to be as young as thirty.

Sherry began explaining the situation, but Daphne was already growing distracted by the artifacts around the shop. There were a lot of trinkets that looked vaguely familiar. Among them, she found a few things that looked to be of Mechanist origin. "That was such a great game," she murmured to herself with a smile as she continued to poke around the shop. "Karras was such a whack-job. And with all his robots, good grief!" She paused to bend over a shiny object.

All of a sudden, from behind her, she heard something that sounded so familiar, it sent a rush of panic through her. The low chink-whine of a machine echoed through the store as an enormous object toppled several piles on top of Daphne, who screamed throwing her arms over her head as she fell to the ground. Whatever it was stood over her, looking down at her so close she could hear the humming of its inner machinery. Slowly, she opened her eyes and found herself staring into a golden cherubim face, with one enormous blue lens.


	6. In Which A Conflict of Conscience Occurs

The value of her several years worth of practice came to Megan's mind as she crouched in the shadows, carefully avoiding yet another patrolling guard. Moving had been slow from the beginning, with each peek around the next corner bringing as much anxiety as the last, with no relief, even when the halls were empty. In fact, Megan's anxiety was worse when she couldn't see or hear the guards. They were there, but without sensory tips to let her know their location, she feared every step was bringing her closer to a head-on encounter.

The first patrol had inflated her confidence, his slow, steady steps so audible she couldn't help but know his exact location. Slipping past him was a breeze, and she felt a sly chuckle rise in her throat. What had she been worried about earlier? She was a master thief, just like Garrett! These bumbling guards didn't stand a chance against her cunning wit and sly maneuvers.

When she turned the corner, however, and only narrowly avoided walking right into the sight of a guard patrolling the sewer pipes at the bottom of the long flight of stairs, her confidence quickly melted into absolute terror. The blades at the men's sides became suddenly sharper in her eyes, and their dull, expressionless eyes keener and more alert than ever before. With her heart pounding in her ears, Megan clung to the shadowy walls, trying to discern pulse from pad of footfall. In her mind, any remote memory of the layout of the prison vanished into the smoky haze of baffled fear, and she found herself dodging to safe hiding places more than carefully maneuvering down the grim hallways toward where Basso must be housed.

She wasn't long inside when she came upon the torture chamber, the ceiling strung with grizzly, pain-inducing tools. From cages set into the floor on either side—each patrolled by a single guard—she could hear the angry murmur of voices, mingled with whimpers and shrieks of men deranged from pain and suffering. It was with much more speed than she thought she could quietly summon that Megan flew through the room when the guards had their backs turned.

The other side proved no safer, for even before she could get through the door, she spotted another guard patrolling the inside hall. Crouching in the meager shadows, she waited, her nerves tingling to move as her animalistic desire to flee kicked in at the sound of the nearing steps. What if she was wrong in assuming he wouldn't open the door? Just a crack and he would see her there. With two other guards in the room, she would never escape.

_Dear God,_ Megan prayed, pressing closer to the wall, _If this isn't too weird for you, please let him turn around!_

The footsteps drew closer, their echo ringing in her ears as if he were walking toward her in an enormous cavern. He was practically on top of her, now! Clenching her teeth and her fists, along with squeezing her eyes shut, Megan pushed even further into the corner, feeling the hard stones press back with cold pain that intensified with each passing second. Behind her, she could hear the other guards drawing near on their rounds. Overhead, metal spikes and razor-toothed steel jaws hissed as they brushed against each other. All that remained would be the clink of the door opening and the shocked cry of discovery!

But it never came. Just when she was certain the door would open and she would find herself surrounded by no less than three armed guards, Megan heard the footsteps fading away. It took a few seconds before she realized that the longer she waited, the closer the guard on the other side of the door would be to turning around again, and with that in mind, she opened the door as quietly as possible and slipped into the shadows lining the hall. Oh the sweet chill of darkness on her cheeks! Hidden at last!

The guard continued his pacing of the hall, but it was much clearer, now from the shadows, that he would cause her no trouble. Rushing almost haphazardly past him, only vaguely worried about the occasional hiss of her footsteps, Megan slipped at last through the door at the far end of the hall and found herself safely alone looking down yet another flight of stairs. How far was she from the surface? It felt as if she were descending into the very depths of the earth, as if any time she would go through a door and find magma on the other side. It wasn't impossible, she recalled. There had been missions in the earlier thief games which had brought her to such places. But with her memory clearing and her face set with determination, Megan knew these stairs would only bring her closer to Basso, and with Basso, closer to getting Garrett to help her and Daphne.

Daphne. The thought of her friend came to her at such inconvenient times, now, making her stomach turn over on itself and bring shivers to her arms and legs. Daphne's laughter rang in her ears, and with a soft growl, Megan shook her head as if to get the memories out. _I can't think about that now! Later. _

With the shivers gone, Megan took a deep breath and descended the stairs, each step bringing her toward the sound of more footsteps. Near the bottom, she crouched in the shadows and watched the path of the guard. He was never fully facing away from her, and the door she needed to get to was only kitty-corner from where she stood. He would see her no matter what she did. It was time to use her second gas bomb. A flash bomb would only alert him to someone's presence, and she couldn't afford that, not if she was supposed to sneak Basso out.

Reluctantly, but with the knowledge that this would be incredibly convenient when she and the rescued man slipped out together without having to worry about catching the guard's eye, Megan reached into her bag and pulled out the metal sphere. She gazed through the small window at the swirling green gasses, but only for a moment until the guard became too close to miss. Then she tossed it onto the floor and spun away, covering her nose and mouth. The sphere clinked on the ground and the gas hissed out. A few seconds later, she heard a body collapse to the floor. That was when she heard the cursing.

Shooting to her feet, Megan peered around the corner, fearful of seeing the guard still on his feet with his sword at the ready. But the guard was passed out on the floor, collapsing as he walked. The foul words poured out of another pair of lips from behind the bars of the large holding cell across from where she now stood. It was all she could do to keep from laughing at the cruel irony of life when she saw who it was.

All Raife did was let out a groan when he saw her. "Oh, not you. No wonder. I thought it was an amateur tossing gas bombs around. You could have knocked me out, you know that?"

Megan crossed her arms and scowled at the thief. "If I'm the amateur, why are you the one behind bars? I thought you were slick enough to keep yourself out of trouble, now that you don't have us two little girls clinging to you." The scorn in her voice was not unnoticed, and the thief's eyebrows rose as he put up his hands in mock surrender.

"Well, pardon me, mistress thief. Had I not bumped into your dear little friend, I wouldn't be in this position at all!"

It was Megan's turn to be surprised, and involuntarily, she took a step toward him. "You've seen Daphne? She's alive?"

"I don't know if she is anymore," Raife replied. "And I don't care. In fact, I don't know why I'm even talking to you. You've never been anything but trouble to me."

Megan's eyes narrowed and she could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rising in anger. With a few swift steps, she was up against the metal bars, yanking the thief by the neck of his shirt until he was close enough to smell her breath. He would have made a face if he hadn't been so shocked by the sudden display of rage.

"Look, you!" Megan spat, unconcerned when flecks of spit landed on the thief's face. "I've wasted all my patience with your kind on Garrett, and if you so much as look cocky, I'll make sure your face never looks so pretty again!" It was only now that Megan realized the knife she had stolen earlier, that had rested all this time safely in its casing, was in her hand and only inches from the thief's stomach. He noticed this as well, and a solemn calm had come over him. At least it wasn't mocking. Shaking off the chill that gripped her as she thought of what she must look like, Megan continued. "Where did you see Daphne? And don't even think about lying to me, I've had enough of that, too!"

"I ran into her not long after leaving that guard's house." Raife's voice lacked any hint of arrogance as he spoke, and his civility surprised Megan. Still, she was certain his affability was only due to the presence of the knife near his vital organs, and for that reason, she didn't put it away. "There are undead out there, you know. I ran into one, and then ran directly into her and another girl she was traveling with. The other one looked like a barmaid, but I've forgotten her name. They'd seen Garrett speaking with some Hammers about some kind of curse that has come upon the city. They said there was something in the Old Quarter that made it happen. Daphne thought that whatever it was had something to do with the two of you coming from another world."

As he said this, Megan loosed her grip on his shirt, unconsciously slipping the knife into its sheath. "That's what he was talking about…" she whispered to herself, gazing absently at the floor while her mind raced to catch up.

"That's what who was talking about?" The hint of a snide tone had returned, now that the blade was safely away from his stomach.

Megan looked up at him, but she didn't even care to frown. Daphne was alive! "Where did you last see her? Is she here?"

"Not here." Raife crossed his arms after straightening his tunic back on his shoulders. "Last I saw, she and that barmaid were facing off with a troupe of Hammers."

"And you left them there to defend themselves?" Megan's eyes fired up at the thought of it. It would be just like him, too! Running away to save his own skin and leaving Daphne to who knows what sort of torment!

"I was trying to draw the guards away, for your information," Raife snapped back. For some reason, Megan felt a pinch in her gut. It was a good thing that he had helped Daphne, even if he did refuse to help Megan with anything. Still, for some reason, she suddenly felt cast aside, discarded as not worthy of aid. Raife seemed to notice some change in her face, because when he spoke next, his voice was slightly less cold. "They're not helpless, you know. That barmaid is a royal pain, I can't imagine what even Hammers would want with her. Besides, they weren't doing anything wrong. Most likely they went back to the cathedral with them and waited there until the Hammers got sick of that girl's voice and let them go."

Megan nodded, but suddenly felt like a little child hearing the comforting words of an older sibling, and with a frown, she forced herself to stand straight. It took all her effort to force the next words out of her mouth. "Well, thank you. If what you say is true, then Daphne is out there somewhere and I need to find her as soon as possible. I've got one more thing to do before I leave, and then I promise I won't bother you anymore."

"Bother me?" Raife lifted an eyebrow which produced a faintly confused expression, before frowning and tilting his head up so that he could look down his nose at her. "I'm not so easily irritated by a foolish girl as _some_ people."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Megan demanded, unconsciously stepping toward him. Raife visibly pulled back, out of arms reach.

"It doesn't mean anything. But I do think you owe me for filling you in. Information's as good as gold in these parts."

"I owe _you_?" Megan shivered with anger. "I think you've forgotten who's on the other side of these bars! I don't owe you anything!"

"Oh, is that right?" Raife, apparently overcome by his own anger to remember to stay outside of throttling reach, stepped up to the bars and glared down at her. "You stole my money. You stole my boots and my cloak, which I only just got back. Your friend gets me into trouble with the Hammers, and from the commotion, they draw the city guards who then lock me up in here. I think you owe me just about everything!"

With a voice that sounded chilling even to herself, Megan replied, "Someone told me once that thieves can't think about anybody but themselves." And with that, she turned and walked toward the door.

"And this from the girl who was so concerned about right and wrong." His words stopped her even as her hand rested on the door. It was true. What had happened to her beliefs in justice and virtue? Would she leave a man to die out of spite? Could she live with herself if she did that?

Slowly she turned to look over her shoulder, and in a quiet voice, she said, "I know you're only saying that because you know it's a weakness of mine, but you're right. I'm not going to sink to your level just because I want to hurt you and make you feel as worthless as you've made me and Daphne feel." She went over and knelt beside the unconscious guard, taking the ring of keys from his side. Then she tossed them toward the bars, where Raife caught them before they fell.

"Where are you going, anyway?" he asked as the keys clinked against the lock. "Most people try to get _out_ of prison, not in."

Megan ignored what her own tongue was saying, she was too angry at herself for being so malleable. "I'm here to get someone. It's my own affair, so I'm sure you can understand that I don't need or want to explain it to you. You wouldn't understand it anyway."

Megan went to the opposite door, trying to remember the confidence she'd felt not a half hour ago. Now, she felt as if all her energy had been drained out of her, all her desire to play the game gone. If this had been the normal world, she would have saved and quit. Here, now, with full knowledge that she could do nothing but continue, weariness pressed down on her. She only wanted to curl up in a safe corner and sleep or cry or both. But she couldn't stop now. In her head, she could hear the classic movie words, the words every hero and heroine had ever said when they were tired and ready to quit: I've come too far to rest now. With a sigh, she opened the door and stepped through.

Down the stairs she could hear a guard's footsteps, and as she crept down the steps, she heard footsteps come up behind her. In panic produced from the image of another guard closing in on her, she whipped around, her hand already on the hilt of her knife. Raife put his hands up again, but he didn't sneer.

"My personal effects were taken from me when I was arrested," he whispered as he closed the door quietly behind him. "If you can stand my company a little longer, I'll just follow you until I can get them."

"Just don't slow me down." Megan turned away from the door as the thief chuckled softly. "What?"

"That's exactly what your friend said to me," he replied.

Despite the almost friendly smirk on his face, Megan didn't feel any better, and instead of replying, she led the way silently down the stairs and into the shadows.

* * *

Daphne screamed. Jack and Sherry were there immediately, staring at the giant robot as it turned to view them with its blue lens.

"What the hell are you doing with one of these!" Sherry shrieked, hiding behind Jack for cover, though he provided very little.

Jack winced as the robot picked up one of its heavy feet and backed up with heavy clomping steps. "I didn't think it worked anymore!" he yelled, his voice a good deal higher than it had been that evening. "It was just a lump of metal! The guy I got it from said all its inner circuits had been rusted out!"

"Well, he was wrong, wasn't he?" Sherry stared at the robot with eyes as wide as she could get them. Daphne, on the other hand, immediately leapt to her feet and dove behind the other two, trying to remember how to move her feet and arms for all her shaking.

"Holy crap!" she shouted at last. The robot turned in place, its footsteps shaking the whole building as it faced her. "Do something! DO SOMETHING!"

The four of them stood watching each other, trying to predict the next move of either side. It was the robot that moved first, clomping toward them as they scrambled backwards, tripping over piles of things that were then crushed under its feet. In this shuffle, Daphne suddenly found herself at the head of the line, looking into its face from no more than three inches away.

And there, everything froze again. After some minutes of awkward waiting, Sherry poked Daphne in the shoulder. "Say something to it."

"What am I supposed to say?" Daphne muttered back.

"Tell it to do something."

Daphne cleared her throat and took a deep breath. "Go over there." She pointed to the far side of the shop. The machine whirred for a moment, and then with a squeak of metal rubbing against metal, the robot turned and stomped over to where she pointed.

Sherry and Jack slowly came out from behind her, staring after the robot. "That's so weird," Jack muttered. "I wonder if it would obey me?"

The following minutes were spent as Sherry and Jack attempted to order the robot to do something, but to no avail. It would only follow Daphne's instructions. At last, the other two, frustrated by their vain attempts, turned back to Daphne.

"Well, how do you like that?" Jack mumbled. "What did you do to make it obey you?"

"How should I know?" Daphne replied. "I was just talking to myself and mentioned Karras, and then from out of NOWHERE that THING showed up!"

Sherry made a thoughtful noise, and said, "Maybe it's because you mentioned Karras? I suppose it could think you were acting in his master's name."

"That's really possible!" Jack clapped his hands together, and that made the robot look over at them. The two backed up a little behind Daphne. "But if it is, we've got a problem."

"Oh?" Sherry lifted an eyebrow.

"If it is as you say, that it'll only obey Daphne because it thinks she's acting in Karras' name, it won't be any use to me or anyone else. It's only useful to Daphne!"

"You're point?"

"So I can't sell it, that's my point."

"Oh, for crying out loud-!"

"I'm just thinking about business, you know!"  
"Oh, I know!" Sherry crossed her arms. "You're saying that Daphne has to BUY that thing because you were stupid enough to purchase an active, working Karras Servant? That's low, even for you!"

Jack paled, shaking his head quickly. "Of course I wouldn't charge you! I wouldn't!" He added the last part with a look at Daphne as though she might actually set the robot on him. "I'm not so greedy as that! But listen, you understand that I'll still have to charge you for the other thing…"

"What other thing?" Daphne asked.

"The charm." As he mentioned it, he lifted a slender chain with a tiny mallet charm dangling from it. "I think it's the only thing that can ward off any kind of pagan curse."

"This is something a Hammerite would wear!" Daphne cried, pulling her hand away from it as if it could burn her. "I can't wear something like that! I'll get myself killed!"

"She's right, Jack." Sherry frowned, but she took the necklace from the shopkeeper. "We're mixing with people very unfriendly toward Hammers. This really won't do."

Jack shrugged. "That's all I can manage for you, I'm afraid. It's not a cure, just a counter spell. Look, I know it's not the most desirable thing to wear in the company I'm sure you'll be mixing with, but there's nothing else that I can give you. I don't know of any cure, only pagans would know that, and not being a pagan myself, I don't have any answers for you. But if you want something to keep you from turning into a weed, well, that's the thing for it."

Daphne frowned at it, but Sherry sighed. "He's probably right, too, Daphne," she said, handing the necklace over to the other girl. "I don't know what else we can do for now. We're desperate, aren't we?"

Nodding, Daphne picked up the chain between her two fingers as if it were a dead snake. "I guess so…"

"I need payment before I can let you go," Jack reminded them.

After the chiming of money exchanged died down, Daphne put her head through the chain and let the surprisingly heavy mallet slip under her shirt where it was hidden. The metal it was made from was piercingly cold, but the intensity wore off after a few moments. In fact, she could hardly feel it at all. It was as if it had vanished into thin air, and save for the chain still around her neck, Daphne could have sworn the charm had fallen off.

"Now, you both better get going," Jack said, leading the way to the front door. "And take that thing with you."

The robot, upon seeing Daphne moving toward the door, had voluntarily clomped up behind them, waiting patiently.

"You can't be serious," Sherry snapped. "We need to be stealthy! How can we be stealthy with something like that clomping around behind us?"

Daphne, perhaps out of mild curiosity, took another step out the door. The robot took another step after her. For some reason, this was actually becoming somewhat amusing. But Sherry was right. They couldn't very well have a giant robot with a cannon following them around the… a cannon?

"You know," Daphne said, turning to Sherry. "Considering our luck with running into bands of Hammers and pagans and undead, it might not be such a bad thing to have a large weapon with us."

"You're both insane," Sherry growled. "There is no way! No way at all we can take that thing with us! It's too loud! The city guards will be all over us in two seconds, mark my words!"

"Well," Jack said, a faint hint of sly salesman coming into his voice, "for a little extra, I could possibly outfit this thing with wheels… It would be very quiet then…"

"And STILL HUGE!" Sherry shouted. "Oh, no! Nothing doing! You've both gone out of your minds! I won't stand here another minute listening to this!"

With that, the barmaid stormed out of the shop. Daphne turned to Jack. "How much are we talking?" she asked, taking out one of the extra purses she and Sherry had snatched earlier. Jack grinned. The robot looked at them both, and if Daphne hadn't been sure the face couldn't change, it looked a little concerned.


	7. In Which Basso is Broken Out of Jail

**Chapter 7**

Shadows or no, Megan was terrified as the guard passed no more than two feet in front of them. Already, she and Raife had managed to sneak nearly to the end of the cell block, ducking quickly into the shadowed alcoves for protection whenever the guard paused to heckle a prisoner or abruptly began his return down the hall. The alcoves weren't large enough to comfortably hide two people, but the awkwardness of Raife's chest pressing against her back and his warm breath rhythmically brushing the nape of her neck was quickly forgotten each time the guard's attention turned in their general direction. _Better uncomfortable than dead,_ Megan thought the first time, though over what seemed like hours of such hiding, the closeness had become only second nature.

Neither dared even a whisper, the only communication between them was the occasional glance signaling a silent dash to the next hidden spot. It was taking forever, and still, there had been no sign of Basso in any of the cells they'd passed. Megan cursed her bad luck, finally determining that Basso must be confined to one of the two furthest cells, making a break out more than merely difficult. And what was worse, the keys to the locks in this block jingled cruelly on the belt of the patrolling guard. A quick hand from the dark would be able to snatch them, but even then, the guard's routine wasn't nearly long enough to give her time to break Basso out and slip back into the shadows unnoticed. That meant only one thing, the same thing that Raife had been hinting at through his glances each time the guard passed in front of them.

_Why did I use that last gas bomb?_ Megan thought desperately. The purse at her side held a plentiful number of flash bombs, but those would only give her so much time, and only delay retribution from the guard. The speed potion would also serve little help; she might be able to move quickly enough to steal the keys and open the cell, but Basso would move no faster than normal, leaving him in a dangerous predicament. Criminals, as she remembered, were only brought to Pavelock once. There were no second chances for escapees.

By this point, the two of them had shifted to the far end, and at last, Megan could see into the cell across from them. There was Basso, looking very little changed from the way he had appeared in the games, though he did look a little more haggard in real life. He also looked terrified. For the first time since she had arrived, Megan froze, unable to pull up any recollections of past missions to help her decide her next step. From somewhere down the way they'd come, she thought she heard approaching footsteps.

Raife put a hand on her shoulder and eased her to one side of the alcove as he brushed past, slipping silently into the back room where confiscated materials were stored. Now, alone, the shadows seemed a much flimsier disguise against the alert, patrolling eyes of the guard. Still, he passed without noticing, turned, and went back the way he'd come, just as he always did with no knowledge of her presence. The footsteps were louder, now, coming down the stairs at the far end of the cell block. When the guard reached the end of his patrol, he stopped and directed his attention to the men who had just stepped into view. There were some mumbled words and the jangle of keys as the guard turned and led the other guards down the hall toward where Megan stood shrouded in shadows.

There was a faint clinking from the back room from Raife, and Megan felt her heart pounding hard in her chest as the men, now numbering four, passed directly in front of her and came to a stop outside of Basso's cell. Basso backed away as the cell door opened, not unlike an animal used to captivity and afraid of the unknown.

"Today's the day," the guard said, his voice gruff and mocking as two of the other men entered the cell and seized Basso by the arms. "The townsfolk are ready to see a swinger, if you get my meaning." How could anyone not? Megan felt bile rising in the back of her throat as panic washed over her. Not now, not yet!

Another careless clink from the back room, and Megan bit her lip to stifle a curse as one of the men turned his attention in that direction. "What was that?" Without waiting for his companions to answer, he slipped away from them, moving out of sight toward the storage room.

The two men in Basso's cell pulled him roughly through the door and out into the hall, not three feet from where Megan stood, holding her breath and fumbling with the strings of the purse at her side as quietly as possible. From the back room came a shout of surprise, and the sickening splatter-thump of a body hitting the floor. The two other men cried out and one of them let go of Basso to turn around and face the armed intruder in the doorway. Raife had regained his personal effects and brandished a cruel-looking short sword covered in a dark, sticky substance Megan didn't need to think twice about to know what it was.

The moment had come! All three remaining guards had their weapons ready, and Megan felt her stomach drop to her toes as one of them knocked an arrow to his bow. One on two with blades was a bad wager, but with a bowman, Raife would be finished in less than two strikes, and Basso still stood in the crossfire. It is strange how people react in moments of terror, when their adrenaline kicks into high gear and their body begins to do swift, calculated things they won't recall later. Megan's fingertips brushed the metal flash bombs in her purse and an instant later, a brilliant blast of light exploded in the middle of the hall, blinding not only the adversaries, but the allies as well. Two steps, soft and quick, brought her up behind the bowman, and with a flicker of movement, she drove the blade of her knife upward between his ribs. He let out a cry and fell, which was enough to distract the two other guards as their vision slowly returned to them, only to give them one last view of the slashing short sword that ripped across their tender skin, spilling blood onto the stones quarts at a time.

Basso had recovered his own vision by this point, and at first had pulled back away from the fighting with a look of horror, not knowing whether this intrusion was to delay or aide his path toward the gallows. Once he caught sight of the two, clearly unlike any of the city guards, he swept down and snatched up a now ownerless blade, ready to help if need be.

It was time for explanations, but Megan wasn't about to start with pleasant introductions. Her hands were covered with hot, sticky blood; something she had never fully experienced. Seeing blood, being near blood, having a period, watching blood on TV, nothing could prepare her for the grotesque slime covering her. She stared down at it until she felt someone grip her by the shoulders and shake her, once, hard. When she looked up, Raife was standing in front of her, his face a strange mixture of concern and urgency. It was attractive, but Megan was far from being able to see that. Everywhere she looked, she saw blood. There was even blood smeared on his cheek. Blood on his hands and up his arms, staining his sleeves black in the dim light. Blood on the stones under their feet made the ground slippery and Megan fought to keep on her feet. Basso was murmuring something quickly, gesturing down the hall in a way that was very certainly suggesting a quick departure before other city guards came down to check on the delay.

"Come on," Raife muttered, turning Megan around when she did not do so voluntarily, giving her a sharp nudge to get her feet moving. Then instinct kicked in, and she ran.

There were other guards on the way, but Basso apparently was not only a talented lock-picker. The subtle maneuvers involved in catching a spring hidden in metal clasps clearly affected his skill when required to use a full-sized blade, and with only a few quick slashes, he dispatched of the guards in their way. Raife was no less swift or deadly in their flight, but he almost gently guided her panicked run with a tap or tug on her arm, to turn her in the right direction. The hallways flew by, shouts echoed around them, shapes of blue bearing swords blurred and smeared with the inevitable splatter of red on gray stone. Dizziness, disorientation, fear, and panic overwhelmed her as she followed the other two toward escape. They took the same route she had entered by, slipping quickly into a low-ceilinged tunnel that led to the ladder, and at last, released them into the cold, free air of the city streets outside of Pavelock Prison.

"No time to waste," Megan heard Basso say, and before they could even catch their breath, they were running again, dodging through the streets to get as far away from the city guard as possible.

* * *

Sherry stood shaking her head, struggling not to laugh at the absurdity standing before her, because—really—it wasn't funny at all. The giant robot waited beside Daphne like an obedient puppy, carefully balancing its weight on one enormous wheel. Thankfully, the wheel itself was coated in rubber, so it made no noise as it moved. But it was still enormous, and was certainly an attention grabber. How they would ever be able to sneak around the city with it on their heels, Sherry was certain _she_ didn't know.

"I think he's kind of cute," Daphne was saying, patting it's hard, metal head. "Not to mention, now we've got a cannon, and that's certainly safer than anything. We haven't even got weapons, you know, we do need some way to protect ourselves."

"This was the _last_ thing I had in mind," Sherry muttered. "Look at it! You want to go to Old Quarter and find some hidden token with THAT following you?" She scoffed, though it was not completely unkindly.

Daphne looked at the robot and tilted her head, obviously thinking. Sherry relaxed a little and leaned against the wall across the alley. After a few moments, Daphne said, "I think we should name him Gus."

"WHAT?" Sherry's hand tangled in her thick hair as she shouted. "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. I thought you were trying to figure out a way to get rid of it!"

"Get rid of him?" Daphne cried, looking just as shocked at the barmaid. "How could I do that? He likes me!"

The robot, seemingly disturbed by this loud struggle, rolled silently between them and made a strange click-whirring noise that sounded very much like a whimper. Even Sherry smiled weakly at it. Daphne hurried up to it and spoke softly to it in the most reassuring voice Sherry had ever heard her use. The robot, convinced by whatever Daphne said, rolled silently out of the way and strangely did carry itself with a little more cheer. It was rather more human than Sherry had expected, and though it was disarming, she couldn't quite get over its size.

"If it were only a little smaller," Sherry sighed, tilting her head to look at it sideways. "But as it is, there's no point in even being quiet! Someone's bound to see us."

"Well, where are we going, anyway? We should know that before we make any rash decisions." Daphne crossed her arms. "Let's see. Garrett was going to Old Quarter to find that thing, Raife was being chased by Hammer- Raife!" Up until now, Daphne had completely forgotten about the wayward thief and the uncomfortable circumstances they'd parted under.

"Oh, let him rot in a Hammerite prison for a few weeks," Sherry muttered, frowning darkly as she crossed her arms with a sniff. "Would do his ego some good to have it deflated."

"You can't mean that," Daphne replied, her voice amazingly stern. "I wouldn't leave you in prison if it were me and Raife had escaped."

"About that," Sherry said with a sudden mischievous glint in her eye, "I thought you said the two of you were a couple, but he didn't seem to care for you at all. That, and you said you were a practiced thief, which I think we've disproved by this point, and you're not from around here according to the Hammerites."

Daphne flushed and chuckled before looking away. "Well, I couldn't just tell you all that right out, now, could I? And maybe Raife is a jerk and a half, but at least he is pretty attractive, if you know what I mean."

"Well, I can't argue that," Sherry replied, her smile widening as she thought of the young thief's long, smooth face and tied back dark hair. "Unfortunately, his personality somewhat overshadows all that, doesn't it." Her smile was gone and she looked irritated again. "I still don't see any reason to break him out. He deserves what he gets for being such a pain."

"Well, lets make a plan and get on with it." Daphne whipped out the map and spread it on the cobblestones in front of her as she stooped down. "We'll have to get to the Hammerite cathedral, and from there-"

"Hold on," Sherry interjected. "We should find out if he's even there. Maybe he got away, you know?"

Daphne frowned. "Hmm. Good point. But how can we find that out?"

Sherry shrugged. "They must have some kind of roster in the cathedral somewhere. Perhaps if we just sort of sneak-" The frame of the robot bumped her arm as it tried to see the map, and she looked up at it. "Oh, there is no way we're getting near a Hammerite cathedral with a Mechanist robot. Not going to happen."

"Okay, so we need a new plan," Daphne's brow furrowed as she stared hard at the map. There were so many things that needed to be done, but she wouldn't feel right if she unknowingly left Raife to his potential death. He might be a pain, but he had still helped them… sort of.

Daphne sighed and rubbed her eyes. It had been a while since she'd had any really good sleep, and the exhaustion was creeping into her bones. Her stomach growled, loud enough for Sherry to hear and suggest, "Maybe we should get some food first."

"That sounds like a really good idea," the other replied, and they immediately gathered up the map and made their way down the street, followed by the giant rolling hulk of the robot, Gus. "We can discuss plans while we eat," Daphne said, though her voice was far away, now, down the street, echoing only faintly off the stones. The two girls continued chattering, all the way around the corner, and when at last their voices faded, a cloaked figure stepped out into plain view, his eyes following their path as he stole quietly after them.

* * *

The two men stood over by the fireplace of the small room where they and Megan had run to after breaking free of Pavelock. It was owned by a landlord who happened to be a friend of Basso's, and it was conveniently located above a pub, which Raife explained would be good for keeping an eye out for unwanted visitors; no doubt the city patrol would be searching for them. Megan crouched on a wooden chair set up beside a rough wood table, hugging her knees and leaning her chin on them. The skin on her hands stuck together from the blood still clinging to them. The two men occasionally glanced over at her, murmuring things in soft voices as Basso stirred something in a small cauldron over the fire. She wasn't listening. Her head throbbed from thinking too hard, from thinking in circles. Over and over her ears heard the shriek of the bowman falling to the ground, the splatter of his blood on the stones. Her knife lay set aside on the table, still black with blood. Raife had said something about cleaning the weapons before they became stained, but even then, she hadn't been listening.

Earlier that evening she had been exhausted, ready to drop where she stood and give up. Now, every muscle, every tendon in her body quivered with hysterical energy. _I killed him. _She doubted she'd ever be able to sleep again. It was not a game, these were not just stupid AI. They were people, real people. As real as she or Daphne. _Daphne's alive._ It provided no relief to the torment running free inside her mind.

Megan shivered as someone approached her, holding a cup of something hot in both hands. Stooping down in front of her, she saw it was Raife, not taunting, not arrogant, not calloused, but looking genuinely sympathetic.

"Here," he said, carefully lifting the cup up to her lips. "Drink this. It will help you relax."

"What is it?" she asked, but her voice sounded so far away, so fine and wispy it could have been a noise the breeze made.

"Just hot rum." As if hearing his own calm, soothing voice for the first time, Raife frowned and stood up, adding sharply, "Don't burn yourself."

By this point, Basso had come back to the table and pulled a chair over in front of Megan, where he sat. "Your friend here has told me a few things, but not enough for me to know much more than your name and that you're from another town." Megan glanced up at Raife; the look in his eyes was one of silent promise. _I won't tell if you don't want me to._ She was grateful for that. Basso spoke again, "Why did you come to break me out? Not that I'm not grateful," he added quickly.

"Jenivere," Megan muttered, still barely audible. "She was at the Keeper Compound."

"She was there to get Garrett, silly woman," Basso replied, but his voice was soft and loving. "I know Garrett, and I know he's not the type to break someone out of jail unless there's a profit in it. How did she come to meet you?"

"Artemus left me there with her. I- I thought maybe if I broke you out, Garrett would…" she swallowed and omitted what she really wanted, "I didn't think Garrett would help you, but I couldn't leave her there, so I came in his place."

"That was very brave, Megan. You're quite the young criminal."

The word struck her harder than Basso realized, though from the sudden glint in Raife's eyes, it was clearly no surprise to him. She looked down at the hot rum, watching her auburn reflection gazing back. She didn't even recognize herself. Dirt and blood were smeared across her face, her eyes were rimmed in red, her whole body shook. _This is all wrong,_ she thought, hiding her face in her knees as a few tears welled up in her eyes. Ashamed but unable to keep them back, Megan shuddered and bit back a sob.

"I just want to go home," she whispered. A hand rested on her back and she glanced up at Raife.

"You need sleep," he muttered, not looking her in the eye. "It will help you forget about tonight."

Stab. Suddenly, the thing that she had tried to keep out of her mind all night, the one thing about her knife digging into the bowman's back, the one thing besides the splatter of blood on the ground, the one thing that was worse than all of those, that made her sick to her stomach even though she'd already thrown up once. That thought suddenly filled her mind so completely she couldn't talk it away, she couldn't justify or explain it. It was what she feared most: the truth.

"I don't want to forget it," she said, her voice louder, firmer. For the first time that night, her eyes blazed with fiery contempt, not for the thief standing beside her, but for herself, and she got to her feet, which were suddenly as firm as rocks beneath her. The mug of hot rum set aside, she clenched her fists, trying to keep the next words from escaping her lips, as if spoken, they would condemn her further than if they only remained burned in her mind. But it proved impossible, she had to let it free or it would devour her. Turning to Raife she looked him right in the eyes and said, in a tone that made her shiver, "I liked it."


	8. In Which Daphne Loses Her Temper

**Chapter 8**

Raife stared at her long and hard before finally saying, "You're just tired. You don't know what you're saying."

"How do you know?" Megan snapped back. Now that she had admitted that the rush of killing someone and of being in a _real _battle with real weapons had thrilled her, to have him patronize her and pretend as if she wasn't telling the truth was worse than Basso calling her a criminal! At least Basso didn't think she was still only a child, not after all that she'd done to rescue him.

The thief had turned his back to her and pulled down the covers of the bed against the wall. With a forceful, almost angry wave of his hand he pointed to it and said, "Lie down and sleep. See if you can think a little clearer in the morning."

The little hairs on the back of Megan's neck bristled. "Don't tell me what to do."

"Why not?" Raife stepped up to her, using his height to amplify the glare coming down his nose at her. "Because killing someone makes you a _real _thief? Look around you, kid," he spread his arms wide toward the room, "you're still just a little girl playing a game. That's all it is to you, isn't it? A game?"

"I don't see this as a game anymore!" Megan shouted.

"Oh, don't you?" Raife hunched his shoulders and glared all the harder. "If you didn't, you wouldn't be pleased about killing someone, you'd be horrified by it, just like you were when I killed that guard. You were scared because you knew it was real. Now that you've killed a guy yourself, you've managed to get yourself a god complex that makes you feel invincible! It's more a game to you now than ever before." With a scoff he turned and snatched his cloak from where it hung by the door. "Forget this. I'm no character in a game, and I won't watch you act like one."

Before Megan could have responded, the door slammed behind him, leaving her and Basso alone. Her gaze fell to the floor with the echoing thud as though the sound had been caused by the back of Raife's hand striking her face. No snappy comeback came to mind; confusion whirled all her thoughts around in her head. If he what he said was right, if her belief that she'd enjoyed killing the man was wrong, if the thing she'd thought was truth was only an emotional response to something she otherwise couldn't handle, what would that mean? All sense of truth was skewed, off-kilter; how could she know what was right and wrong if her own conscience lied to her?

Basso shifted uncomfortably in the corner, unwilling to be the first to break the silence. His eyebrows stayed arched with concern when Megan turned to look at him through bleary eyes. "I think I'm going to sleep for a while," she whispered hoarsely before she moved slowly to the bed, crawled under the covers, and rolled on her side to face the wall where no one could see her crying.

* * *

"Normally, I'd feel bad about doing this," Sherry grunted as she helped haul Daphne through the window and into the dark room, "but it's either steal a bed or sleep on the street, and I'm _not_ sleeping on the street."

The two girls stepped off the window sill and into the shadows, already feeling much more comfortable and inconspicuous than they had on the way. "You sure he's going to be alright out there?" Daphne asked, leaning back out the window to look down at the giant Karras-bot. Gus had his face turned up to the window, having rolled a little ways back in the alley behind the inn after allowing the girls to step up on his back to get in the window. He looked to Sherry like a rather odd puppy.

"I'm sure Gus will be much better out on the street than we would be. Neither of us have an arm-mounted cannon." The barmaid rolled her eyes and moved over to the shadowy shape of the large bed. "You take the right side," she said as she untied the laces at the back of her corset and peeled off her dress, exposing the sheer slip and scrap of a blouse beneath. Daphne stood by the window, looking uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Sherry demanded as she pulled the blankets back. "Don't tell me you're too modest to sleep in the same bed with another _girl_!"

"Are you sure there isn't another room with two beds?" Daphne asked in a small voice before Sherry scoffed and pulled the covers up over her shoulders as she made herself comfortable.

"Relax. I'm not going to molest you. I'm pretty sure any guy down on the street at this hour would. So get over it and get some rest. Goodnight."

Daphne stood in the dark for a long time, but at last she went over to the bed and crawled in, making sure to keep a good foot of mattress between herself and the other occupant of the room. Then closing her eyes, she tried to sleep.

An hour later, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling, sleep still just as far from her as it was before. Beside her, Sherry's breaths were slow and calm, and Daphne could almost imagine, if she closed her eyes, that it was Megan sleeping on the other side. Then again, Megan tossed and turned a lot when she slept, so it wouldn't have been as comfortable.

With a sigh, Daphne slipped out of bed and crept to the window. Gus still stood there watching the building silently. It was strange, but she'd almost imagined he'd have gone to sleep too. Instead, he looked just like any Karras-bot did when it was idle: faintly humming and staring off into space. When she shifted, thinking about curling back up in bed, the sound alerted him, and the click-whir of his senses being activated reached her ears as he lifted his head and looked at her.

"Hi Gus!" she whispered. "How are you doing down there?"

Gus watched her quietly, but he didn't seem bothered. She wondered if he understood what she said sometimes. Smiling to herself, she leaned on the sill and looked out at the city. The inn was near the middle, she guessed, because there seemed to be buildings rising up in every direction around it. Where was Old Quarter from here? Toward that tall building to the left? Or maybe toward that line of smaller buildings off to the right. Maybe it was dead ahead, blocked from sight by the wall of the building across the alley. After a few more minutes of enjoying the cool breeze and the silence of night, Daphne waved to Gus and crept back toward the bed. She was just about to sit down when she heard a door slam, and a series of angry footsteps slapping the stairs as someone descended to the commons room in a foul mood. She waited a moment longer but hearing no other kind of continued commotion, finally sank onto the bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. The blankets were warm compared to the air, and she tried to focus on that as sleep slowly crept over her.

Then her eyes snapped open. There was another noise, or so she thought, and a cold shiver ran over her, electrifying the weariness out of her muscles. Every inch of her locked up, frozen as she held her breath, listening for the noise again. There! A soft creak from a floorboard, but it was close, maybe right outside their door!

The first thought that came to her mind was that the innkeeper had decided to rent this room out for the night after all, despite the hour, and with the caution of a tempered criminal, Daphne lifted her head silently from the pillow. Sure enough, there was a shadow blocking some of the light from seeping under their door. The handle turned, clinking against the lock. The innkeeper would have a set of keys and would know the doors were kept locked. A moment later, the shadow flickered away from the door. The hall outside was quiet, devoid of footsteps. Then from down the hall by the stairs, someone knocked on the innkeeper's bedroom door. From where she lay in bed, Daphne couldn't clearly hear what the voices were saying, but she didn't want to wait to find out. She nudged Sherry hard, receiving a return shove twice as hard.

"What?" the barmaid growled in the dark.

"There was someone outside our room. They tried to get in, but the door's locked, and now they're talking to the innkeeper," Daphne whispered back in one long stream. "We have to get out of here."

"There's no problem," Sherry muttered. "I know this innkeeper, he doesn't rent out rooms after he's gone to bed. It's a personal policy that has turned away good business for him on occasion. If he won't let out a room to a young lord this late at night, he sure won't do it for anyone else."

Just as she finished speaking, they heard a pair of footsteps drawing near the door, and heard the jingle of keys coming out.

Sherry sat bolt upright and motioned to the window. "Go tell Gus to hide!"

"We need to hide!" Daphne hissed back.

"There's a ledge-" but the barmaid's words were interrupted by the clicking of the latch. As the door swung open, the two girls leapt from the bed and hid behind it, holding their breath and hoping for dear life that the visitor didn't close the door too quickly.

"Look, I told you there's no one in here." It was the innkeeper, sounding not a little irritated at having been forced to break his customs to suit someone else. "You happy now?"

The unseen guest took a few steps out into the room, their shoes thumping softly against the floor. "This bed looks unmade." It was a man, soft-spoken though with a cold edge to his voice.

"So my cleaning crew didn't get a chance to make it yet, what's that to you? You're not renting this room, it's none of your business whether the bed is made or not." The keys in the innkeeper's hand jingled as he fingered them, eager to get the visitor out and get back to his bed.

The visitor took a few more steps and paused by the window, his hands rasping against the sill as he leaned out. Daphne held her breath, waiting to hear a cry at the sight of Gus, but when several moments had passed in silence, she let the air go. Somehow, Gus had gotten out of sight. The visitor walked over to what she guessed was the bed, and she heard the whisper of cloth as he threw back the covers and heard the soft thump of his knee as he knelt down to examine under the bed.

"Hey, whatcha doing?" the innkeeper demanded. "The bed might not be made, but that's no call for making it worse!"

"I'm making sure that there really is no one here," the visitor replied, his voice growing colder by the minute. "I assure you, two girls came to this inn and snuck into this room to spend the night."

"I haven't seen no girls here, buddy," the innkeeper growled back. "I woulda noticed someone sneaking around. I may not be one of you Keepers, but I got eyes."

The Keeper made a sound like an exasperated sigh and returned to the door. "I'll take a room for the night," he said as he passed the gap between the door and the jamb. Daphne got a quick look at him, though only saw enough to know he wore a Keeper's cloak. Of one thing she was certain: it wasn't Garrett. That would have been a spot of luck for a change. No, whoever this was, he was either a real Keeper or someone posing as one. He didn't sound like a pagan or a Hammerite, at least. What did he want with her and Sherry, then? What business would a real Keeper have with them?

"I don't rent rooms this late," the innkeeper muttered, defeated but still kicking as he closed the door and locked it behind him.

Daphne didn't even glance over at Sherry until the footsteps softened as they moved along the hallway and finally vanished down the stairs. Then they wasted no time in rushing to the window.

"Who was that?" Sherry demanded in a whisper as she stood on the ledge. "And where's Gus?"

"I don't know! I didn't think he'd have time to hide." Daphne squinted down the alley but saw nothing. The robot was gone. "Where could he be?"

"I don't know, but we need to get out of here. I don't know why you attract so much attention, and from Keepers, no less!" Sherry clutched the side of the wall as Daphne climbed out next to her.

"How do you know it was _me_ attracting the attention, huh?"

"Keepers are only interested in one thing: their stupid prophecies. They don't bother themselves with petty crime like stealing rooms or even mugging a bunch of guys in an alley." The last part was added with a knowing glare in Daphne's direction. "And as we both know, there's one of us in particular who seems to be rather tied up in a Hammerite prophesy. If it's in Hammerite beliefs, then it's bound to be in the Keeper's too. As much as all these religious sects seem completely different and unique, they've all got a similar base, and a lot of them share prophecies. Heck, now that I think about it, you were in one of those pagans' prophecies too…"

"That was about the Trickster coming back," Daphne snapped with a little more force than she'd intended. She was angry that Sherry had brought it up again, though, and bothered that her friend might actually think that part of their misadventures was true. "I'm _not_ the Trickster. So prophecies can be wrong, alright?"

"I just call it how I see it," Sherry muttered back. "Let's get out of here and argue about which prophesies are true later. There's a drain pipe over there that might serve as a way down." Without waiting for another word, Sherry shuffled along the ledge, past the shuttered windows, and over to the length of pipe reaching down from the top floor to the alley floor below.

Daphne followed quietly, frowning and seething with what she knew was damaged pride and self-pity, but just as Sherry grabbed hold of the pipe, the sound of shouting echoed down the streets from someplace not far away. Footsteps rang off the walls below them as the shouting continued and moved into the muffled regions of the inn. A troupe of city guards ran around the back of the alley, shouting and gesturing up toward them.

One glance told Daphne they were in trouble, and a moment later, a volley of arrows cracked against the walls above and beside them. Sherry let out a cry of pain as an arrow buried itself in her leg, and before Daphne could do a thing, the barmaid's grasp on the piping slipped. Another grouping of arrows, targeted at Daphne alone, distracted her from seeing her friend plummet the two stories to the cobblestones below, landing with a sickening thud. Glancing below her for just a moment before the arrows forced her to shuffle along the ledge, Daphne saw one of the guards bending down beside the barmaid. He glanced up at his superior officer and gave the thumbs down signal. Sherry was dead. The realization roared through Daphne, stopping almost all thought, even as another arrow ricocheted off the stone beside her. The hammer talisman burned against her skin, but her rage continued to grow. The scalding heat of the heavy metal finally grew so hot, Daphne reached into her shirt and pulled the talisman off, throwing it with an infuriated scream down at the guards below.

"You bastards!" she howled, hearing the screeching voice multiplying in her throat and seeing the whole world go red. Her skin crackled as it turned green, and before she could stop herself, she lashed out with the vines coming out of her arms. The coils caught the guards in a rush, stabbing into them, wrapping around them with crushing force, pinning them up against the walls and pushing the air out of their lungs. Swords fell useless to the ground, bows and quivers snapped in two as they were tossed up against the stone walls along with their owners.

All of a sudden, from behind, she heard the door burst open and the shutters on the door beside her flew open as a guard came to the aide of his comrades below, brandishing his sword. He didn't last long enough to see his own blade tumble to the ground outside, he was to busy gawking at the sharpened vines digging through him and coming out on the other side. Daphne switched her attack, realizing there were more guards pouring into the room than there were left alive in the alley, and those were only barely capable of groaning. She slipped through the window with her vines knocking a path through the guards and the unsuspecting guests who had only just leapt from their bed. Some of the guards in the hall were wise enough to draw their swords, but not quick enough to save themselves before they met the same fate as their friends in the alley.

Everywhere there was screaming and shouting, the flash of blades, the slippery splatter of blood, and the whir of vines shooting out and destroying everything they touched. Plaster walls didn't stop her attacks, and before long, she could smell smoke from a fire started somewhere in the building. Then flames filled the scene, driving out the still moving guards before her as she tore the building down around her. None of them would survive this. As Sherry had died in the fight, so would they in a fiery blaze. From somewhere beyond her rational recognition, she spotted the man in the Keeper cloak disappearing through a misty doorway, a brilliantly blue glyph above it. _He is a Keeper._ The thought came from somewhere muffled, far away in her mind, but it gave her a strong jolt of fear, calming her temper just enough for the vines to vanish and her skin become painfully aware of the heat. Flames, everywhere, eating up the walls and floors, devouring beds, blankets, and dead human flesh alike. The stench made her eyes water, and the blood smeared on the walls and on the floor made her retch, but having gone so long without food had it's advantages. In terror, she tried to locate herself in the building. What floor was she on? Where were the stairs? What was the quickest way out?

A thundering explosion erupted behind her, sending stone and burning plaster everywhere. Daphne screamed and held up her arms to shield her face from the debris, and only took them down when she heard the whirling and loud clacking of metal gears and a distinctly robotic voice crying above the roar of the fire, "One of the Builder's children is in danger!"

Gus rolled into the building from the hole he'd blasted in the side, and Daphne saw he held Sherry with one metal arm. Her eyes were open, if only a little, and she lifted a hand when she felt the searing heat of the blaze.

"You're alive!" Daphne shouted, rushing toward her metal pet and the friend he carried with him.

"This place is going to collapse!" Sherry croaked.

Gus pivoted on his wheel and sped out of the building with Daphne running beside him. When they were little more than a hundred feet away, the inn shuddered it's last, final attempt to stay erect and fell in on itself with a thundering crash of snapping beams, tearing plaster, and tumbling stone.

* * *

Megan wasn't sure how late it was by the time she heard Basso softly snoring, but the sky was still too dark for it to be nearing dawn. Whatever the hour, Raife hadn't returned, and she hadn't slept at all.

_Do I really treat this as a game?_ She wondered. There were times when it was painfully real, but there was always a flagging doubt in the back of her mind, some belief that this really didn't matter in the course of things, that somehow anything she did here wasn't truly the same as doing it in her own world. Raife had picked up on it before she had, and it surprised her how much it bothered her. He was a no good, lying, cheating thief, but she couldn't say she wasn't the same. Not anymore. If everything she did was just as real as it would be back home, then she was just like him. Did he think she looked down on him? _Maybe I do, in a way. Maybe I have always thought of him as a game character, someone that didn't really matter._

She hugged her knees as she sat staring out the window. Somehow she had thought that everything she did here would cease to exist when she left, just like it did in the game. There were never any repercussions for killing a guard or stealing someone's purse full of gold. But this was real, she'd slept, she'd eaten, she'd felt the guard's blood on her hands, felt the cold steel of a stolen knife in her hand. If she had nightmare about it now, who could say she wouldn't continue to have them when she returned? If she returned.

With a sigh, she let her head sink to her knees. _I can't do this. How can I do what's right when the only people who will help me are thieves and criminals? _There was only one thing to do: she had to leave. _If I find Daphne, we can go to the Old Quarter and find whatever it was that brought us here. Then we can leave, and pretend none of this ever happened._ Her stomach twisted violently and she shivered, pushing away the heavy regret that this place would no longer be real to her when she returned home. _But it is real, now. Raife was right, I can't treat this as a game._ The pleasure that had arisen in the throws of mortal violence had faded while she laid silent, pretending to be asleep. Once or twice, she thought she had drifted off, and the guard's pained face had immediately appeared in her head, startling her awake. No, she didn't enjoy killing. It had happened once, and she knew she could do it again if she absolutely had to. _But only if there's no other option,_ she thought, slipping out of bed and creeping to the door.

Just as she cracked it open, she saw a cloaked man and the innkeeper walking down the hall, away from her room. The man in the cloak glanced about as the innkeeper fitted a key into the lock of a door far down the hall, and Megan pulled her face back into the shadows. He was a Keeper, there was no doubt about it. _What's a Keeper doing here?_ Immediately, she glanced over at Basso. They'd discovered she was missing. Maybe Artemis never planned to help her, maybe he only planned to use her for the Keeper's needs. She was part of a prophecy somewhere, Keepers loved that stuff!

Closing the door, Megan crept to Basso's side and shook him. He came awake with a snort and his hand flew to the blade at his side. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"There's a Keeper out there in the hall. I think we'd better go." Megan was already to the window, getting a good look outside to see if there was a readily available ledge.

"A Keeper?" The alertness which had come with the imminent fear of arrest faded as Basso leaned back in the chair he'd fallen asleep in. "They won't bother us, we don't have any business with them."

When Megan didn't answer with more than a brief look, he asked, "Do _you_ have business with them?"

"Maybe a little."

"A little as in how much?"

"Alright, a lot. A whole lot, and I seriously doubt I'm in good standings with them." There was a ledge, not a wide one like she preferred, but it would work well enough. Basso had come up behind her, surveying the escape route.

"Well, we better get moving then."

Megan turned. "You were right, you don't have any problems with the Keepers. Maybe you should just stay here, it might be-" She was just about to add "safer" when she saw the last thing she wanted to see coming down the road in blue and violet uniforms, fully armed and more than dangerous. The city guard!

"How did they find us?" Basso had stumbled back from window, and the fear in his face was reflected on Megan's. Both knew what would happen if the guards found them. You only go to Pavelock once. After that, you're free game for slaughter.

Megan watched as the head of the guard hammered on the front door of the inn. When no one answered it, he signaled a burly officer to step forward. With one well-aimed, powerful kick, the officer bashed the door open, and the troops stormed in, smashing through the tables and guests with no concern. The innkeeper's voice rose above the commotion carrying a torrent of curses, but even those were drowned out as footsteps ascended the stairs.

Exchanging a quick glance, Megan and Basso crawled out onto the ledge and hurried toward the edge of the building. They came to an abrupt stop as a line of officers came out the front and began circling around the back. Dressed in dark clothes as they were and ducking down to huddle on the ledge, the guards ran around the corner below them without a glance upward. Safe, for the moment.

"I think you're going to have to use your knife again," Basso muttered. "The only way down is back inside, and it's not going to be easy."

Megan nodded, though she felt like throwing up again as she slowly turned around on the ledge and followed Basso back through the window. "Keep your back to a wall, I'll try to cover for you, but I can't always watch your back," he said, tossing her the sheathed dagger from the table. It landed heavy as lead in her waiting hands, but she did her best to ignore the chill it left on her bare palms as she strapped it onto her belt. "Here we go," Basso said in a low, resigned voice, as though he knew he were already dead.

Then with a snarl to stoke up his courage, he threw the door to their room open, coming face to face with a sea of blue and violet. The battle surged in on them, but it became quickly clear that the two escapees were not the target of the guard's attention; at least, not anymore. It was as though the whole building had become a war zone: blood was everywhere and people were screaming. A fire had started and was already crawling out of an open room a few doors down. The guards pressed into their room backwards, keeping their backs to whatever they struggled against. Megan got a flash of a vine whip before squeezing past a guard and out into the crowded hallway. There were guests screaming and trying to run while guards pressed in from every side, trying to get at the invisible menace on the inside of the inn. Megan caught a glimpse of Basso ducking around the corner down the stairs, and she fought her way after him though the jabs and shoves of the crowd. One guard glanced over at her and a hint of recognition flared momentarily in his eyes. He looked about ready to call out when the crowd surged suddenly backward to the sound of plaster being torn apart, and she pushed down the stairs past him.

People are killed in stampedes of panicked crowds, and Megan quickly understood why. There was no sense of organized escape, just every single person out for themselves to get as far from the building as possible. She thought breaking free of the front door would suddenly allow for swift flight, but the streets had grown crowded with observers who had come to watch the guards arrest a couple criminals, and those same people had decided to escape when the fire began and the screaming inside started. Stumbling once or twice had almost put her under the feet of these people, and only a swift hand out into the crowd that plucked her from where she ran and dragged her into the alley kept her from being one of those killed. There were several bodies under the stampede's, most of them small. Megan choked. Children don't run as fast.

Basso forced her to look away and pulled her down the alley. "We may be out of that by a sheer stroke of luck," he cried over the uproar, "but those guards will remember us soon enough, and I'd rather we were very far from here!"

"Lead the way!" Megan shouted, now following him without being yanked along, running as hard as she could to keep up with him as he dashed down the streets.


	9. In Which Raife Gets the Spotlight

**Chapter 9**

"_The Woodsie Lord leaves him's Eye, forgettings us not him comes again. Him's Eye am our rock, gives it into the soily flesh that lies inside the ground. The Woodsie Lord hims power lives, puts it in the rotting flesh, and thems that puts them faith in stone and metal wills fall. The Woodsie Lord bes returning." –Excerpt from an Anonymous Pagan Writing_

For the first half of his pacing through the dark city streets, his anger kept his feet moving. He took his mood out upon the occasional unfortunate citizen walking past, not caring whether or not their bag of money was tied tightly to their belt or dangling loosely, just asking for him to pluck it free; either way, he mercilessly blackjacked his victims without a second thought and dragged their limp bodies into the alleys as he searched for any other trinkets that might be tucked away in some unobtrusive pocket.

Yet each time he brought the club down on some unfamiliar head, he knew that no matter how many heads he pounded, it wouldn't help him to understand why he was angry. The frustration that stoked his anger wasn't hard to explain away: for the last few nights, he'd been nearly killed by two stupid girls who clung to him like he was some kind of nursemaid, who wouldn't leave him alone, who always seemed to get him in worse trouble than he could have ever gotten himself into, and yet despite all that, the moment he stepped out of the inn that night, he knew he'd come back. What eluded him was _why_, and that uncertainty twisted around in his mind as his purse grew heavier with stolen loot.

At first, he tried to push it off as a favor: Megan had helped him out of Pavelock, and because of him and Basso, had killed someone for the first time. In a way, he felt guilty, which was a new feeling, as though he'd spoiled something pure, but it wasn't long before he laughed that off as absurd. Who was he to take care of anyone? He couldn't even take care of himself now that those girls had latched onto him. His income had already decreased more than he cared to dwell on, and the little bit that he had replenished tonight with a few quick muggings hardly made up the difference. It'd seemed like months since he'd picked a lock, slipped into a dark house, and looted it from top to bottom. Mugging wasn't his style, but he knew he was too agitated to try a house tonight. All it would take was one little slip and the bull-dogs would pounce on him. With his one incarceration at Pavelock, he knew there was no second chance for him. He valued his life more than the amount of loot one of these small townhouses could pay in a single raid. So instead, he continued to knock down the occasional passerby, smirking to himself as he thought of the growing pile of unconscious bodies he was leaving in his wake.

When the moon had sunk behind the lower buildings, casting the streets into the black shadows of pre-dawn, Raife finished pocketing a fine necklace pulled from the limp form of a naïve young lady who'd thought a four o'clock stroll alone in the city was a good way to fight insomnia. He glanced up at the sky, detecting the first hints of navy blue tints overhead. Two more hours and it would be full morning. For a moment, he considered going back to the inn, but feeling a surprising twinge of eagerness at the thought, he denied himself and strolled down the streets, hood up, keeping to the shadows. The twitch of cheer put him into an even darker mood, and as he walked, he fingered the dagger at his side while wishing someone would hassle him so he could use it. Luckily, for the rowdy drunks, all of them had passed out long before and the thief was alone. The twirling blade caught the glow of a torch, and flashed in the firelight. For a moment, he thought of a blade much like this one plunging into the unprotected back of a Pavelock guard. He almost chuckled remembering the shocked, blood-splattered face staring back at him as the man crumpled to the ground. _I really didn't think she'd do it._

The flicker of warmth in his chest made him scowl and put the blade away as he turned to walk down a quiet, well shadowed alley. A stack of crates provided a good stopping spot, and he sank onto one, glad to rest his feet. With a sigh, he leaned his head back against the wall and crossed his arms. A few minutes of uninterrupted relaxation was only what he deserved for dealing with those stupid girls. It was long past the time when he should have ditched them and gotten back into his own game. Game. The word sent a chill down his back and any chance for rest vanished with the flutters of discomfort in his stomach. Each time he thought of the word, he could hear the leather of his gloves creaking as he clenched his fists.

"I'm not some puppet," he muttered, leaning his head in his hands as if to push the thought out.

"That's the same thing He said." The voice was right beside him, but before he could so much as sit up, he felt the chill of a sharp metal blade against his throat. Like a good victim, he remained still, waiting to hear the demands. He wasn't stupid, they could take the money. He'd hunt them down later and make them remember who to steer clear from.

"I am not a threat to you," the voice said, and Raife felt the blade lighten slightly. "But I need you to take me seriously and not try anything foolish. Will you swear to keep your dagger in its sheath if I take this knife from your throat?"

"If you think I kill only with my dagger, you're sadly mistaken," he growled, wincing as the blade pressed harder. "But so long as you don't give me reason to protect myself, I won't harm you."

"That's all I ask." Without a second hesitation, the knife-point pulled away and slid with a whisper back into its leather sheath. It was then that Raife warily lifted his piercing gaze to the man standing now a few feet back.

"Who are you?" he demanded. As he rose to his feet, he realized the man before him was at least a foot shorter in stature. He was dressed like a beggar, but somehow managed to smell worse. "What do you want?"

"Pawsberry is the only name you'll need to know," the little man said, and though he stood relaxed, Raife could tell he was still alert and ready to move if given a reason to. "I have a job for you, if you're interested. It pays well."

"How well?" The better a job paid, the more likely he'd get his neck broken in the process, and his eyes narrowed unconsciously as he measured up the grimy fellow who didn't look as though he had more than a copper on him year round. Still, he didn't sound like a beggar, even if he looked like one.

"Better than any job an amateur like yourself has ever received. Half will be paid in advance, the other half, when you deliver." Pawsberry pulled a clinking sack out from behind him, and dropped it on the ground between them with a metallic clunk.

"Why me?" Raife asked, eyeing the sack with interest. It looked like a fair amount for a down payment, almost too good, which made him suspicious. He'd heard of young thieves being conned with offers such as this. The city guard was pulling out all the stops, recently, to cut back on crime. "Surely there are more experienced thieves whose services you could acquire."

The little man smirked. "We've already approached Garret, but he refused."

With a sarcastic laugh that echoed through the street, Raife took a step back from the money. "If the master thief turned it down, there must be a reason. I'm no fool, and I don't need to prove anything, so if you're hoping I'll be dumb enough to rush into anything blindly just for a bit of tinder, you've picked the wrong thief."

"I know I'm not picking the wrong thief," Pawsberry replied, still smirking. "Even before I asked him, I knew Garret would turn this job down, but not because it's overly hard or overly dangerous. It is both, don't misunderstand, but it's not impossible. For him, it's a matter of- personal conflict, you could say. Or irritation on his part. Why would he want to go to the trouble to steal back something he stole from us not more than a month ago?"

Raife dampened his dry lips as his eyes flickered back down to the sack. It was still fishy. "So what's the job?"

"You've heard of the Eye before, I assume?"

"It's a Pagan talisman."

"Correct, though it's far more than a talisman. What it truly is, though, has nothing to do with the job. Garret was hired by the Hammers to steal it from the Pagans nearly a month ago, and when he delivered it into their waiting hands, they promptly sent it under armed guard to Haverham Cathedral on Northermeed Island. The Cathedral is large and well guarded, but it was not originally built by Hammers. It was at one point a private estate owned by a Lord Thorton, and has only in the last twelve years been a religious stronghold for those mallet-wielders. The Eye is there, now, kept safe somewhere on the premises. We have a craft that can carry you across the bay to Northermeed, and we have a way inside by use of a secret passage the Hammers have never found. There are many of these passages, and we've added them to a map of the place we came across in the city archives. So long as you know the paths, you should have no trouble slipping in, locating the Eye, and slipping out undetected."

"Sounds complicated," Raife muttered, crossing his arms. "And risky. What's the payment?"

"This sack is filled with two-hundred of the Pagan forest's finest gems, dug from the mines and still unpolished. A rare opportunity for fences to get their hands on, I've no doubt they'll pay handsomely. They're exceptionally low risk, no one can trace them, and once they're cut and polished, they'll be worth even more than raw. Bring back the Eye and you'll receive two more bags just like this one. I can guarantee this will be the biggest payment offer you've ever received, and probably the largest you'll ever get again. It would be sad to see you turn up such an opportunity. What's a little danger and risk when succeeding will not only make you fabulously wealthy, but also win you the esteem of thieves everywhere? You'd no longer be an amateur, I can tell you that."

It was a tempting offer, incredibly tempting, and yet that little twinge of warning in the back of his mind made him hesitate. Even the Master Thief had turned it down. For personal reasons, the man said. For a sum this much, Raife would steal the same object from different people repeatedly for months. Still, this was a powerful item to steal. It'd be guarded well, so well it'd be the hardest task he'd ever attempted before, but if he could do it-! A chill ran down his back at the thought of three sacks filled with the rare gems. _I'd be right up there with Garret. I'd be his peer. His equal._ The thought alone seemed impossible, and yet, attainable all in the same instant.

"When do I leave?" he asked, smirking as he held out his hand for the man to shake. Pawsberry smiled and shook on the deal.

"This bag of gems is yours. Pawn them well, they're worth a great deal. I'd hate to see you underpaid for them." The man nudged the sack with his bare foot, making it perfectly clear he would come no closer to it now that he was not the owner.

Raife obligingly picked it up and cradled it in his hands. He could feel the rough stones through the thin cloth, but he pulled the drawstrings open and drifted over to stand in the torchlight to examine them closely. Everything was in order. "You worry about getting me those other bags, _I'll_ worry about fencing them. I may be an amateur compared to the Master Thief, but I know my way around Black Alley."

"I'm glad to hear it. When you've obtained the Eye, read these instructions and do exactly as they say. If you so much as miss a single step, I can't be held responsible for your unfortunate and untimely demise."

Raife glanced over at the man and his eyes flickered down to the envelope in his outstretched hand. Without a word, he took it and slipped it into his clock pocket. "I understand."

"Excellent. Then I need not linger here. Until we meet again." With that, the little man bowed and walked away.

Raife watched him go until he turned the corner and disappeared, then he tied the sack to his belt and turned to head back toward the inn. He didn't plan to stop in and say goodbye or anything; he'd left a few useful items there when he'd gone out for a stroll. _I'm just going to grab my stuff,_ he thought. _Just getting my stuff._

The first hints of light had tinted the sky a pale pink behind a cloud of black. It was strange, but he didn't recall seeing any clouds whatsoever less than half an hour ago. It was only as he drew closer to the inn that he realized it was not a cloud, but a pillar of smoke! The streets suddenly became crowded with people bumping into him as they rushed past, their faces white and their shouts filling the silent night with chaos. He forced his way through, finally slipping off to the side and out of the main stream of fleeing figures. When he saw a troop of city guards run past, going away from the inn, he pulled his hood close to his face, watching them disappear through the streets like cowards. It would have been funny if a cold lump of dread wasn't chewing away at his stomach.

The inn that had been standing no more than a few hours ago was engulfed in roaring flames, the heat from it so strong it brought pearls of sweat to his forehead as he watched, frozen, from a distance. A main support gave way suddenly and half of the building lurched before crumbling to the ground. The second half followed a moment later, its beams snapping and crackling as they burned away and the building collapsed. His logic frayed by the turmoil of the moment, he ran toward it, unable to get more than a few feet closer before the heat and the blaze became too hot to bear.

He wasn't thinking about his supplies, he realized, as his eyes darted around the painfully bright area. The dancing shadows from the fire made him see moving figures everywhere, and the uncertainty of his own sight finally drew him back into the cold shadows. There was only one place to go, the place Basso and he had decided upon as a second meeting place if the city guard suddenly descended upon them. He could only assume that's where Basso would take Megan if they'd gotten out alive, just like they planned earlier by the fireplace in the little room. Even before he knew what he was doing, he was hurrying down the street toward the silhouette of the clock tower rising over the cityscape.

His urgency made him falter, and after a few argued moments in his mind, he forced himself to stop with a cold chuckle. "Why am _I_ in such a hurry to meet up with them? What am I to her? She broke me out of prison, sure, but I don't _owe_ her anything. I've got my own job, now. Why wait? The guy has a boat ready and waiting with a nice overhead of two more of these," he said, patting the sack at his hip. "It's time for me to look out for myself and stop letting myself get tangled up in all her nonsense. Besides, her business is with Basso. He seems capable enough to watch out for her when she's being stupid. I'd just be a tag along anyway, and I _won't_ be a burden to anyone else. I watch out for myself."

By this time, he had turned around and long passed the smoldering remains of the inn on his way toward the port. His footsteps weren't as quick, but he didn't much care. When he was on a job, he'd take just as much time as he liked. Still, it took a little more dedicated thought to erase the twinge of guilt in his stomach. At first, he tried to figure out what it was that made him feel so guilty, but when that only enhanced the nervousness, he quickly switched tactics and thought instead about the amount of money he could charge for the gems at his side. It didn't take long for him to decide it was best to put his latest acquisitions in a safe place before heading out on the job; clinking with money was nice when you didn't have to be particularly quiet, but it wasn't worth getting your throat slit for. Besides, with the kind of money he was carrying, it didn't take much common sense to realize he was a good target for street thieves.

A quick switch of direction to head back to his little hole in the wall apartment brought him down a particularly black alley, made only darker by the quickly brightening sky. "I guess that rumor about the skies remaining dark was just Hammer nonsense," he muttered, squinting up at the streaks of orange and pink overhead. Somehow, the thought that nothing strange was going on in relation to Megan and Daphne's appearance made him feel a little better. So they were just toying with him after all—trying to work up his sympathy, no doubt, with all that talk of being from another world. Well, it certainly backfired. _Don't tell someone they're not real if you want them to help you,_ he thought with a sneer. It was almost comical, really! A game! Ha!

He shook his head, still smirking as he turned the corner. A loud whistling noise brought his head up fast, and he barely avoided the flying object that whizzed past him. It struck the wall behind him with a thunderous crash, showering him with stone dust and wood splinters before he leapt back into the alley to avoid a second projectile. Over the noise, he heard two distinct sounds: one, a metallic voice crying, "Deactivate human!" and the second, a very familiar voice that made him want to groan, shouting, "STOP GUS! STOP IT!"

Although the voice was definitely Daphne's, Raife had no intention of coming out from where he crouched in a shaded doorway. His blood thundered in his ears and he swore he heard the thing clomping into the alley after him. After a few moments, however, when his pulse had slowed a little, he could hear normal footsteps coming closer as Daphne and Sherry looked for him.

"Raife? Are you alright? Are you still here?"

He considered remaining in the shadows and letting them believe he had run away, but the thought of looking like that much of a coward dug into his pride and he cautiously emerged. "What was _that_?" he demanded, doing his best to look furious rather than terrified. "You could have _killed _me, though I suppose with you that's not a first!"

"Oh, calm down," the barmaid snapped, crossing her arms and tilting her hips just like a skin-service girl looking for customers. "Daphne stopped it before it did you any harm."

"You call getting a cannon shot at my head no _harm_?" He didn't have to hide his fear behind false anger anymore, he was fully enraged. He stormed up Daphne who watched him with wide, unabashedly terrified eyes, and was considering what it'd feel like to strangle her to death when he caught the shine of metal out of the corner of his eye and leapt back, hand on dagger, as he faced off with the giant robot.

"Don't pull out your weapon! He'll just take that as a threat!" Daphne said, hurrying over to the metal beast as though it were nothing more than a large dog. "He won't hurt you, I told him not to."

"Oh, and it listens to you?" Raife demanded, eyeing the thing as he casually turned his back to the wall, his hand still hovering over the hilt of his dagger.

"Yes, he does. He won't leave her side, and he's very loyal, unlike some cowards who run away when Hammers come around." Sherry sidled over to her friend and stood with her chin raised.

"Don't start getting all haughty on me, wench," he snapped back. "I didn't see _you_ doing much to keep those Hammers back!"

"You just keep telling yourself you're not a coward! If it wasn't for you drawing your sword on them, they might have let us go without more than a scolding and a scripture to memorize!"

"Come on! Both of you!" Daphne cried just as Raife opened his mouth to reply. It was to him she spoke, next. "I'm sorry Gus shot at you, I don't know why he did. I can only assume you startled him."

"_I_ startled _him_?"

"At any rate," Daphne went on, ignoring his incredulous face, "I'm glad you're in one piece. I know what Hammers do when they attack, so I'm glad to see you only look slightly worse for wear."

"No, thanks to you," he muttered, crossing his arms and glaring down the alley. "What are you doing over here anyway? Attracted by the flames?" When he glanced over at her, he swore he saw her face flush with embarrassment.

"Not exactly," Sherry said, avoiding eye contact with anyone by watching her kneading hands.

"It's a long story." Daphne waved off his curious look and turned to pat the giant robot's head. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"Another long story," he replied, feeling that strange twinge of guilt again. "I was looking for your pal. She was at that inn, believe it or not."

Daphne's face went ashen. "Megan was- she was in _there_?" She looked as though she wanted to vomit onto the cobblestones.

"Yes, she _was_, but I highly doubt she would have stayed once the building caught fire." Odd, but somehow he felt as if he were speaking more to assuage his own concern. Some bizarre mix of that guilty feeling and the headiness of nearly being blown to bits, no doubt. It would pass. "She and Basso probably got out pretty quick. I was-" He thought about shutting up for a moment, thought about carrying out his plan to get moving on that job before he got sucked into their mess again, but no matter how sane that rationale sounded in his head, his mouth continued to speak of its own accord. "I was just going to see if they were at the meeting place Basso and I agreed on."

The girl's eyes lit up immediately and she ran up to him, grabbing his shoulders. "Are you sure she got out? Will they be there?"

Carefully, he pried her fingers off of him and took a distancing step backward. "If they're alive, they will be."

"Will you take me there? Please? I have to meet up with her, Raife! I have to! I hope I didn't hurt her! Will you let us come? Please?" Daphne practically fell to her knees in front of him as she begged. He could see the fear in her eyes, but there was something else that struck him as strange; Sherry was still carefully avoiding any eye contact. What had she meant by 'Not exactly' anyway? And what had Daphne meant by 'I hope I didn't hurt her'? Weird or not, and as much as he hated to admit it, he almost felt sorry for the girls. Almost. It had occurred to him that once the two girls were together, they might cling to each other and _not_ to him, which was nearly as appealing as two more sacks of unpolished Pagan gems. Again, _nearly_.

"Fine, but don't slow me down," he muttered at last, pushing his way past her and the barmaid toward the main street. "And keep that _thing_ away from me." He managed to keep his uncomfortable glance to little more than a flicker of his eyes toward the robot as it turned around silently on its large wheel. The two girls were right behind him. "I'm only doing this to get you off my back. I've got my own business to attend to, now."

"Thank you so much!" Daphne squeaked, running up beside him and trying to loop her arm through his. He deftly avoided it and gave her a sharp glare telling her inaudibly to keep her hands to herself. Still, instead of looking downcast or disappointed, she merely grinned and said, "You know, you act all tough, but you're a sweetie!"

The thief's glower darkened and he hunched into his cloak as he attempted to swallow his irritation. _If Megan isn't there, I'll kill myself,_ he thought. _Death would be better than dealing with _this _any longer than I absolutely have to!_


	10. In Which Daphne and Megan Are Reunited

**Chapter 10**

It was the first time she'd ever seen the streets of a Thief city filled with people. In fact, it was pretty close to the first time she'd ever seen the city during the daytime. Megan shifted, stepping a little further into the black shadows of an overhanging doorway as a troop of city guards marched by. If she hadn't been so worried about being identified as a criminal, she would have loved to step out onto the streets and wander about; the city looked like a medieval fair. The houses were all so quaint and rustic in the bright sunlight, and she didn't even think about breaking into them to steal the possessions they held. Along the cobblestone streets, crowds of people weaved in and out, going about their daily business while vendors tried to sell them fruits and beads and all sorts of other things. None of the vendors sold flash bombs, lock picks, or water arrows, though she did see a few selling fire arrows and moss arrows for fireplaces and gardens, and a little ways down there was a vendor selling health potions. Tucked away in the bottom of the cart, she thought she saw the bluish-green shine of an invisibility potion. _I'll have to remember that place_, she thought, and immediately scowled. _I need to stop thinking like I would if I were playing a game. This isn't a game anymore. Raife was right. Even if it was at one point, now that I'm here, now that I can kill and be killed, everything is as real as life back home._ She allowed herself to indulge in memories of her family and friends, and the effect was immediate. She hunched in on herself and sighed, wishing more than anything that Daphne were there.

She looked out at the faces of the crowd and froze suddenly. There, among strangers, she swore that for a moment she'd seen Daphne. But no, it was gone again. "Just a figment of my imagination," Megan sighed.

"Hmm?" Basso asked, roused from the half-doze he'd fallen into. His ability to drop off to sleep whenever they paused for a few minutes and his ease at waking up suddenly made her wonder if he'd ever served as an officer in the army. Soldiers were reported to be able to sleep on a dime and wake up equally fast, but living a life of crime in which any moment you could be arrested for numerous hangman-worthy crimes probably produced a similar talent. "Did you say something?"

"I just thought I saw someone I knew."

"Raife?"

"No, someone else." This seemed to appease Basso's curiosity, and he went back to dozing. Her feet were beginning to ache through her shoes, so she sank down on the darkened steps and watched the sea of pedestrians with an absent gaze.

There! Again she swore she saw Daphne's face among the crowd, just on the other side of the street in front of the clock tower, and this time, she wasn't sure it was a trick of the eyes. Megan leapt to her feet, squinting at the spot that was now obscured by a wall people in the way. Then, in a lull of the crowd, she spotted them. Raife and Daphne! Without hesitating, Megan flew from the shadowed doorway and shoved her way through the crowd, not caring who called her rude, and a moment later, found herself on the other side of the street, blinded by the bright light and all the faces. Cursing her slow-adjusting eyes, Megan glanced up and down the line of people leaning against the wall, but their faces blacked out if she looked directly at them. They were only distinguishable out of the corner of her eye, and it was then that she saw someone rushing toward her. Before she had a chance to slip out of their way, she was bowled over onto the ground. It was only after a moment that she heard the squeal and distinguished a high-pitched cry of, "Megan! Megan! Megan!"

The knock to the ground cleared up her vision and she immediately recognized the person hugging her and the person pulling the hugger off her with an angry growl of, "Do you _want_ the bull-dogs to know your pal is here? I hate to break it to you, but we're all a little suspect at the moment."

"Megan, you're alive! I've been so worried about you! Where'd you get the clothes, anyway, they look fantastic! I should get some, too—I don't blend in too well, especially in this bright light."

"We should get out of sight. Where's Basso?"

"Across the street," Megan said, knowing she was grinning like an idiot as Raife helped her to her feet. "That shadowy doorway. We've been waiting for you for almost two hours! Basso thought you'd ditched us."

Raife scoffed and hunched his shoulders. "Don't think I didn't consider that."

Then she turned to Daphne who stood apart, beaming with a hint of tears in her eyes, and she couldn't help throwing her own arms around her friend and hugging her tightly. "I thought you were dead! Were you crazy to go to that pub? You could have been killed! The whole place was torn to pieces, we didn't know if you were alive or dead or what, and I assumed the worst, but then Raife said you were alive, but then the Hammers had come, and then I didn't know what to think-!" Daphne laughed at the torrent of words that spilled out of Megan's mouth.

"No, I'm fine! Sherry's been making sure I keep myself out of too much trouble."

"Sherry?" Megan noticed the third member of the group for the first time, a barmaid who was giving her a very curious look, something between curiosity and contempt. She assumed it was just the look of one who is used to living on the rough side of town, and turned to shake her hand. "Thank you so much for watching out for her. I'm so glad she wasn't alone."

"No problem," the barmaid replied, shrugging. She glanced at the extended hand, but she didn't take it. Instead, she glanced around them and said, "Raife's right. We should get out of sight."

Without another word, Megan led the group through the crowd, all the while hanging on to Daphne's arm—and Daphne to hers—as though anything might suddenly separate them again. Basso peered out of the doorway, but when he saw Raife, his face lightened and he nodded a greeting.

"Thought you were going to ditch us for good," he said when the thief stepped into the shadows.

"I thought I was too, but it seems fate is crueler than I expected." He glanced over at Megan and Daphne as they continued whispering to each other in the shadows of a doorway a few paces off. Sherry was with them, her arms crossed, her face none too friendly.

Basso noticed the new additions as well, and with a jerk of his chin, asked, "Who're they?"

"The one who's practically fused herself to Megan is called Daphne. They're friends, I guess, but much more than that I don't know. Except that they both have a way of getting me into trouble."

"And out of it, if Pavelock is any indication."

Raife smirked. "A fluke, I assure you. That other wench is a barmaid, Sherry. Nasty little piece of work, very irritable, but the other girl seems to be able to put up with her."

Basso nodded knowingly. "Girls seem to be very social creatures," he said. "My wife has a flock of girlfriends whose presence would drive me up the wall within five minutes if I had to be in the same room with them." He shook his head, but his eyes had softened, and Raife didn't have to make any wild guesses to assume he was thinking of his wife at that very moment. With a frown and a cough, the lock pick grinned. "So what's the plan, now?"

"I'm not sure, but it better not take long. I've got places to be, and I plan to leave tonight." The thief stepped out of the shelter of the overhang and hurried over to where the three girls clustered.

"-oh! You have no idea what we've been through!" Daphne was saying as he approached. "It's probably best if we talk in private about it."

"Good, because there are some things I need to tell you that I'd rather no one else knew about," Megan replied, nodding in agreement.

"I hate to break up this little chatter," Raife said as he pressed into the shadows with them, "but I think it's time we got out of sight. Three of us are wanted criminals and I doubt the city guard would mind tripping over us on one of their patrols."

"Have anyplace in mind?" Megan asked. "I've been trying to think of a place that would be safe, but the only place I can think of is a Keeper storage room sealed by a glyph, and I'm not sure we want to risk running into an unsuspecting Keeper. At least, I know _I_ don't."

"We saw a Keeper just last night!" Daphne said, tugging on Megan's sleeve like a little kid. "He was looking for me and Sherry, but I have no idea why. Any ideas?"

Megan cast her a quick glance that said she had several, but she kept her lips sealed on the matter. After a pause, she turned to Raife again. "Did you have a good place to go?"

"I have a place that'll work." He signaled Basso to come over and join them. When the lock pick was there, he continued. "There's a few abandoned buildings over at the edge of Old Quarter. You said you needed to go there anyway, it'll be on the way. We can stay there until dark and then go about our separate business."

"Separate business?" Megan asked, lifting an eyebrow at him. He rolled his shoulders and gave her a cool gaze. He, too, could keep his mouth shut about things. She watched him for a moment as though trying to read something in his face, but when he glanced away she shrugged and turned to Daphne. "That'll work won't it?"

"I don't see why not. What are we waiting for?"

"I have _no_ idea," Sherry snapped, stepping out into the sunlight. "Lead the way, Raife. There's no point in wasting another moment standing around here."

He cast the question in a glance, but Daphne shrugged. "I don't know what's eating her. Could be lots of things, I guess. Maybe she's worried someone will run across Gus... we left him hiding in a really out-of-the-way alley. Too many people on the streets, now, anyway."

"Gus?" Megan lifted an eyebrow as Raife took her arm and drew her out of the shadows and onto the street.

"Don't ask," he muttered, moving ahead to lead the way to Old Quarter. Daphne and Basso followed close behind.

* * *

The journey to Old Quarter was uneventful. It wasn't hard to avoid the attention of the city guards when surrounded by throngs of other citizens, though the crime rate seemed just as active in the daylight: Raife caught two boys trying to pick first Megan's pocket and then his own. He led the group deftly through back allies and seldom used passageways scattered throughout the city in places neither Megan or Daphne would have thought to look. Basso watched behind them, making sure no one was following them, but just as it was hard for the guards to pick out one criminal face out of the crowds, so he had a hard time judging whether one person was following them or not. Most often, he decided it was just his naturally paranoid nature, but because of his concern, Raife led them on a spiraling, roundabout route that kept them walking until well after the clock tower in the distance tolled noon and the heat of the blazing sun was rising off the cobblestones. Megan now knew why living in medieval cities was dangerous, not for the corruption and thieving, but for the insufferable heat, the rotting waste in the streets, and the animal dung left in the middle of the roads as though there were nothing to it. It was a breeding ground for disease and foul smells. 

She wasn't the only one crinkling up her nose, either. Daphne looked a little green after they passed a particularly smelly pile of refuse, and even the overconfident look in Sherry's eyes had faded to a dulled look of disgust. Only Basso and Raife seemed undisturbed by the smell, and with a smirk, Megan nudged Daphne in the side and muttered a Jeff Foxworthy joke about "Courtesy Sniffs." Daphne burst into a peel of laughter which got Megan chuckling, and made both Raife and Sherry give them a sharp glare. They stifled their giggles, but they were forced to keep from meeting each others eyes to keep the next bursts of laughter at bay.

At last, Raife led them into a rundown building with broken glass windows and snapped hinges on the doors, and up the stairs to the third story. It might not have been comfortable, there was no furniture to speak of, and Sherry shrieked when she almost stepped on a rat—which made her turn bright red and begin muttering curses under her breath—but it was quiet and out of the way, a good place to lay low until dark. Almost immediately, Daphne and Megan declared that they needed to share some information with each other, and before anyone could say that any information they needed to share between themselves ought to be shared with everyone else, the two girls had closed the door to a side room and pushed a chair up against it. The other three stood for a moment in the open room, and although they could hear the evidence of whispering going on behind the door, they couldn't make out a word of it.

With a snort of disgust, Sherry strolled over to the far wall and slumped down against it with a glare. "Megan! Megan! Megan!" she chided, her face contorting in disgust. "Geez, it's like she hasn't seen her in _years_. What's so fantastic about the girl, anyway? She doesn't look like anything particular."

Raife rolled his eyes and drifted to the other side of the room. "Do you hear yourself when you speak?" he asked as he took off his cloak and balled it up for a pillow.

Sherry cast him a withering glance, but he didn't seem to notice. Instead, she turned her attention to Basso. "So how'd you get pulled into all this? They try to kill you, too?"

The lock pick seemed a little uncomfortable under her bitter glare. He shrugged. "I'm not sure how much information I should be sharing," he said, seating himself not far from the door where he could watch the rising stairs at the end of the hall. Then he turned his attention to Raife, who was already lying down, the hood of his cloak pulled out from the ball of fabric and draping over his eyes. "Man, I'm tired. Feel like I've been up for several nights in a row."

Raife grunted. Sherry scoffed and rolled her eyes. "What am I _doing_ here with these people!" she muttered under her breath.

"You're a nosy wench, that's why you're still here," Raife growled back. "Now shut up so the rest of us can sleep. You can whine and moan just as well inside your own skull."

"Oh, like you _never_ complain about them!" she snapped back. "What exactly are _you_ doing hanging around here, anyway? I thought you had other business to attend to."

The thief lifted up the corner of his hood and glowered at her, which made a smug smirk slip across her face. But instead of answering, he merely pulled the cloth back over his eyes and crossed his arms over his chest. A few moments later, he was sleeping, and so was Basso. Sherry hunched down and glared at the unconscious occupants of the room as though the glare alone would stir them awake, but it had no effect.

"Well, _they_ may be alright with all this whispering and giggling, but _I'm_ not," she whispered, and settled herself for a long wait. "I'll make sure they tell me what's going on the moment they step out of that room."

* * *

The thick rust-light of sunset filled the room when the two girls emerged, looking solemn. All three of their companions lay in various places on the floor, sleeping soundly. Even Sherry was curled up by the wall, her head cushioned on her arms as she dozed. The click of the door handle startled Raife and Basso, but Sherry continued to sleep. 

Daphne smiled at her and whispered to Megan, "It's been a while since either of us got any sleep."

"Maybe you should rest for a little while, then," the other whispered back. "I slept a little last night, so I'm doing alright." Daphne nodded, but the look in her eyes was fearful. "Don't worry," Megan said, patting her friend on the shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere without you. I promise."

"Alright. I'm trusting you on this."

"Good." Megan grinned and Daphne moved across the room to a nice spot in the sunlight. Raife and Basso had gotten up and moved over to where Megan stood, and the three of them shifted a little down the hallway. Not far—Megan wasn't sure at what distance her promise would be broken—but far enough to let the other two sleep without being disturbed.

"What took so long?" Raife said as he pushed a few loose hairs back into place.

"We had to figure out what was going on, at least, based on what we both have learned so far," Megan whispered, glancing back at the other room. "Daphne overheard a conversation between a couple of Hammers and Garrett. I recall him mentioning something of the sort when I ran into him later and went with him to the Keepers."

"I thought you and the Keepers weren't getting on too well," Basso said.

"We aren't. But I'm getting to that. The Hammers told Garrett that something had come into the city that wasn't supposed to be there, and that there was supposed to be some kind of item in an Old Quarter warehouse that brought the unnatural things here. Naturally, Daphne and I are of the opinion that _we_ are the unnatural things, and I think Garrett and Artemus believe that as well."

"Didn't the Hammers also say that there would be eternal darkness and the undead walking the streets?" Raife asked, his tone grating. "If you didn't notice, it's been a pretty sunny day today. And I haven't seen any undead for a long time. The Hammers may have something up their sleeve, but a prophesy that's half wrong? Sounds like a cheap way to elicit the Master Thief's services." He scoffed and looked down his nose.

Megan could feel the hairs on the back of her neck rise and she was very close to slapping him hard across his haughty face, when she thought of something. "It's not wrong," she said, her eyes lighting up. "It was supposed to be dark and the dead were supposed to walk the streets because something unnatural was in the city. What if that is only the case while that something is unnatural? You said it yourself, I'm a thief now. I've killed someone from here, I had his blood all over me. And Daphne-" She hesitated, knowing full well, now, what would qualify Daphne as a "natural", at least among the Pagans, but she wasn't sure if it was a good idea to spread that information, particularly to a thief who had almost killed them when Daphne had suggested that the Trickster had brought them there. With a wave of her hand, she said, "Well, she's been more than inducted into this place. We're not unnatural anymore. The darkness lifted the night after I killed the guard at Pavelock."

Raife rolled his eyes and crossed his arms, but he didn't look down his nose at her anymore. "That seems a little far fetched," he muttered, but she knew she'd won, at least in explaining how he _could_ be wrong.

"Anyway, Garrett was going to go to Old Quarter and track down that item, and I didn't get a chance to go after him because Artemus left me in a holding room. That's where I met Jenivere, and that's when I learned that although she'd been asking Artemus to ask Garrett for help, he'd kept his mouth shut when Garrett was there. That's when I decided to go to Pavelock and get you out for her," she said to Basso. "Garrett must have gotten the item already, but I don't know where he would have taken it, if he took it to anyone at all. Daphne said that Keeper who I saw at the inn had come looking for her and Sherry, but she doesn't know why. I assumed he had come after me, since I'd escaped from the compound by way of a glyph."

"So the Keepers know about all this, too? But why would they get involved?" Raife sounded doubtful. "I understand that they like to have their hands in almost everything that goes on in this city, but no one seems to have any idea of what's really going on."

"Well, if anyone knew what was going on, it'd be the Keepers," Basso said. "And if Garrett has gotten the item already, which he probably has, then it's already in the Hammerite's possession. Won't do much good for us to go into Old Quarter to try and find it, now."

Megan nodded solemnly while she pieced together what they already knew. "You're right. It won't do any good to go to Old Quarter now. Then I guess the next order of business is to get you and Jenivere safely out of the city."

Basso made a startled choking noise. "There's no need for that! Your business is far more urgent than that of my wife and mine."

But Megan shook her head. "No, I promised her I'd bring you back safely. She probably hasn't heard that we escaped alright, and it won't do her any good to worry about that when she's in her current condition. You need to go with her and find a place that's safe for you to live. That baby isn't going to wait forever to be born, you know, and your first duty is to make sure it's not born in a prison cell- or a Keeper Compound," she added quickly. "I'll take you back to the compound, go in via the glyph, get Jenivere out… Do you have a place you both could go to that wouldn't draw any attention?"

The lock pick nodded. "My cousin lives in the next city over. We can get a lift on one of the trading ships that travel along the coast."

"Perfect."

"What makes you think the Keepers won't be in there waiting for you?" Raife asked suddenly. Megan opened her mouth as if to give a perfectly reasonable explanation for why that couldn't possibly happen, but he didn't wait for it, as usual. "You take a lot of unnecessary risks. If you want to survive in this place, you're going to have to watch out for yourself better. Think like a thief."

"Like you?" she growled. "Oh, yes. I can see how you've done so much better for yourself."

"I do pretty good when there are no little girls tripping me up."

"Little girls!" Megan cried. "This little girl saved you from hanging, I'll remind you! Could you have gotten yourself out of Pavelock?"

"I wouldn't have even been _in_ Pavelock if not for-" With a cry of frustration and disgust, Raife threw up his hands and glared at her. "We could argue this forever, you know that? One way or another, you can't deny the fact that I've only gotten into the trouble I have because of you and that little friend of yours."

"If we cause you so much grief, why are you still hanging around?" Megan growled back.

Basso glanced away as the two scowled at each other, but a smirk was beginning to play on his face. In a sudden burst of recklessness, he muttered, "Maybe I should let the two of you have some privacy…"

The response was immediate. Megan jerked backward, blushing and frowning at the same time as she demanded an explanation for what he meant by that; Raife's scowl vanished in a flash of surprise before he settled back into a flat, stone-like face and turned to look out the broken window at the end of the hall. Basso put up his hands with a chuckle and said he was only joking.

"I make jokes when I'm uncomfortable, I'm sorry, it's in my nature," he said, unable to keep the grin off his face while the other two deftly avoided each other's eyes.

Megan crossed her arms and cleared her throat as her red cheeks slowly faded. "Enough of this. Tonight, we're bringing you back to the Keeper Compound. I'm sure we'll be able to figure out some way to make sure there isn't an ambush waiting for us inside." She said the last part with a deliberate glance at Raife, but he made no sign that he heard it. "Then we'll make sure you and Jenivere get to your boat safely. That's the plan. Are you alright with that?" she asked Basso, but he could tell her question was directed toward Raife.

For a moment, the thief said nothing, but then in a soft, distant voice, he said, "Do whatever you like. I've got my own things to do."

"That separate business you were talking about?" she asked.

"Yes."

"And what sort of business is it? More thieving? Maybe an assassination job? Need to rack up a few more crimes before the city guards hunt you down and hang you from the gallows?"

Basso lifted an eyebrow at the biting tone she used, but Raife reacted in kind. "I can do whatever I like," he hissed though his teeth. "I've done my part, I've paid my price. You broke me out of Pavelock, I brought your friend back to you. I'm _done_. I've lost a lot of money since I met you two, so yes, I'm going off on my own again to make up the difference. And who are you," he continued with renewed malice, "to give me attitude about what I do? You've stolen, you've killed. You just said yourself that you're no longer an unnatural thing in this place."

Megan's face was heating up again, this time, there was no doubt that rage fueled it. "Fine! We don't need you. We've never _needed_ you, just as you have clearly never needed us. You're right, we're natural in this setting now. We don't need a guide. So what are you waiting for? If all you wanted to do was make good your debt with me, then why are you still here? Your _urgent business_ calls!" She rolled her eyes and refused to look at him, instead she turned back to Basso. "Are you ready to go? It'll be plenty dark soon, we'll be able to get going."

With that, she strode into the other room to wake Daphne, while Basso was left in the darkening hallway with a very sour looking thief.

"Damned girl," Raife muttered to himself, as he let his balled-up cloak open up and fall to the ground. He threw it violently over his shoulders and clasped the lock in the front. He patted the pouch at his side, and Basso heard the clink of stones inside. When he caught Raife's glance, the thief looked smug. "Once you and your wife get on that boat," he said, "make sure _those two_ are on the docks behind you. Get away while you can." He cast one last, bitter glance at the other room, and then he descended the stairs, not caring how loud his footfall was.

Basso watched him go, and a moment later, Megan appeared at the end of the hall, looking a little concerned. When she saw him, she frowned. "Is he gone already?" The lock pick nodded and she scowled at the floor. The look only lasted a moment, however. "What's that?" She nodded at an envelope on the ground.

"I don't know." Basso bent down and picked it up, turning it over in his hand. "Maybe it fell out of Raife's cloak?"

Megan snorted and came over as Basso handed the envelope to her. "That sounds just like him. Forgetting things. Oh, yes, he's such a capable thief. Never does _anything_ wrong. Oh, no, it's all _my_ fault that he does things like this." She muttered something else about a fire arrow and a window, but as she glared at the seal of the letter, her face darkened and her complaints stopped.

"What is it?" The lock pick leaned closer to look over her shoulder.

"It's a pagan seal," Megan said, glancing over at the stairs Raife had just descended. For a long time, she stood silently, then tore open the letter and began reading the page. Her frown deepened with each passing moment, but before Basso could ask what was wrong, she turned around and ran back into the other room. He followed her and caught the tail end of what she was saying to Daphne in a hushed voice.

"-it says he's to leave the item in this part of the Pagan forest. Isn't that where you met Adrianna?"

Daphne shifted at the unpleasant memory, but nodded. "It's around there, I'd guess. I didn't really look that hard—we just sort of ran. But the layout of the trees does look sort of familiar."

Megan frowned at the image drawn on the paper in red ink, and then abruptly pressed her nose to the sheet and inhaled. Her face contorted and she abruptly held the letter out as far as away from her as she could reach. "It's written in blood," she said, and then in another low whisper, she asked, "What is Raife stealing for them that's so important? And from whom?"

Daphne shrugged and took the letter from Megan. "Do you think it has something to do with that prophecy the Hammerites were talking about?"

The other girl frowned. "I don't know, but I can't help feeling like this is tied in somehow. Bet you anything we're going to have to go in and save his butt again." The comment made Daphne laugh, and her laughing made Megan chuckle, but neither looked particularly convinced that what had been said wasn't possibly the truth.


	11. In Which the Keepers Get Involved

Chapter 11: In Which the Keepers Get Involved

It was dark sooner than they anticipated. Night fell like a black funeral sheet over the whole city, and no matter how hard she strained her eyes, Megan couldn't see a single star in the sky, not even in this dark part of town. The breeze was cold and sent a wash of shivers down her bare arms. She hugged herself to keep warm, but it wasn't nearly enough. Behind her, she could hear Daphne and Sherry talking in low whispers, but she tuned out the words.

_What possible business could Raife have with the Pagans? _He'd said it was urgent business, but what could possibly be so important? _Maybe it wasn't _that_ important. Maybe it was just a good excuse to slip off for good._

A snippet of conversation drifted over her shoulder. "…always knew he was more trouble than his help was worth…"

Daphne's voice started out soft, but somewhere in the middle, Megan heard her say, "…not his fault. He didn't ask for us to…"

All of it sounded so strange, so bizarre. _I'm in the middle of a video game, and I can't even tell if it's real or just my imagination. Nothing makes sense anymore. _With a sigh, Megan moved away from the window and into the dark room. Basso had convinced them it would be safest not to light any kind of fire, even a well hidden one, for fear that it might draw some kind of negative attention.

"The City Guards still patrol this area, abandoned or not," he'd said. "We'll just have to make due with the dark until you're ready for us to leave."

_Until I'm ready for us to leave,_ Megan thought, strolling over to where the shadowy lump of the lock-pick lay, dozing for a few more minutes before they began the long night ahead of them. It was nice to have a grown man allowing her a little more say in the way things were done. She was sick of men telling her she was just being a stupid girl. _Basso trusts me to do the right thing. He's trusted me from the beginning. Unlike _some_ men._ Two particular names came to mind, both sporting stylish black cloaks, and both having more than their fair share of arrogance.

Just as her anger was beginning to spark up again, she heard a loud growl that made her jump. Across the dark room, she heard the other girls stop talking, and somewhere near her feet, Basso shifted and sat up.

"Did you hear that?" Daphne whispered. Everyone was silent. After a moment, they heard it again, this time with a gurgling noise added to the growl. Megan could feel it resonating inside her. Then another noise started, something like choking, sputtering, which then erupted into a loud peal of laughter. "Megan!" Daphne cried, "Megan, is that your _stomach_?"

Embarrassed, Megan put her hand on her stomach, feeling the vibrations coming from under the skin and muscle. The slow onset of nausea she had attributed to the Pagan letter from Raife's cloak now became perfectly clear, and amusingly simple.

The dark shape of Basso rose to its feet, and she could hear his low chuckle. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked.

Glad the darkness hid the embarrassed blush from her face, Megan said, "Nothing since the drink you gave me at the inn. And nothing before that. I haven't really had time to think about eating."

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and something cool and round pressing into her hand. "It's an apple," Basso said. "It's all I've got, but if you don't stop growling, the Keepers will know we're coming a mile away, even in the dark!"

With a shy chuckle, Megan took the apple. She felt sick with hunger, but the thought of eating anything only made her feel nauseous. Still, she could hear the others waiting for her to eat, so forcibly ignoring her desire to gag at the thought of swallowing any food, she bit into it with a crunch. Even before she'd managed to chew the first piece, she could hear Daphne laughing.

"You always did forget to eat when you were playing the game," Daphne said.

The last three words seemed to have a strong effect on the other two members of their group, and Megan could feel, if not see, Basso and Sherry stiffen in the darkness. "I forget to eat whenever I'm distracted by things I think are more important," Megan muttered, drifting back to the dark window.

Down below, the streets were black and thick with shadows, but an unexpected flash of light caught her eye. If she leaned out just enough so that her peripheral vision didn't catch the window frame, she couldn't tell if her eyes worked at all; a flash of light was strange indeed.

_Something's down there._ At first, she thought it might be Gus, the Karras Servant Daphne had told her about, but it had been so quick. Daphne hadn't described Gus as particularly fast, even if he was silent. The thing down below was definitely moving quickly, running even, though she hadn't heard any footsteps.

Stepping away from the window and ignoring the sticky juice from the apple running down her fingers and pooling in her palm, Megan shifted toward the door leading to the hallway and the stairs. Cautiously, she peered around the corner. She thought she heard something that sounded like a creaking board.

A brilliant blue flash shot out of the darkness from the end of the hall, and even before she could scream, she felt it strike her face-first. But it wasn't a blow like a fist or a gunshot, it was cold and damp, strangely like the mist of a glyph doorway. It struck her in the face—first chilling the tip of her nose, then her eyes, lips, cheeks, ears—and passed through like a smoke ring. But the cold rushed down from her head to her toes, and in an instant she felt every muscle in her body freeze. Somewhere far, far away behind her, she heard a muffled voice that could have been Basso's. She thought it was asking her what was wrong, but she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't make any noise at all. Just below where she could turn her eyes to see—for they too were frozen, fixed straight ahead at the dark figure emerging from the shadows, down on her chest—she could see something glowing, something blue. A glyph. There were several cries from the room behind her, all cut off abruptly, and Megan was certain despite her inability to look around and see that there were suddenly more people. The figure down the hall approached with a grim smile on his lanky face. It wasn't Garrett, but he was definitely the creator of the glyph.

"A Halting Glyph," he said in a chilling voice. "I think you're more than familiar with Doorway Glyphs. Too familiar for a non-Keeper, if you ask me."

Without another word, he strolled past her and into the dark room. There were other voices, people talking to the man who had just walked in, but only his voice was clear to her.

"These are the two I was following earlier, yes. But I made a mistake. This one—the bar wench—she's nothing. It's the one by the door I was really after. Her and this one here." Another muffled voice said something, to which the man chuckled. "You're lucky you froze this one as quickly as you did. She's stuck with the charm on her neck, which is much better for us, trust me. I saw what she did at the inn last night."

Megan felt her blood growing cold. The Keeper from the inn, the one she'd thought was tracking her and the one Daphne had almost been caught by. She hadn't seen his face, but now she knew without a doubt it was him. She could recognize his sharp, uncompromising voice. _How did he find us? Who else is here? What possible use could the Keepers have with both of us?_

"Put a Slumber Glyph on all of them. We'll take the two we want back to the compound. The others we have no business with."

Even through the muffling, Megan could hear the thud of three bodies hitting the floor, and already she could feel the cold, damp glyph pressing into her back, dissolving her view of the dark hallway into unconsciousness.

* * *

By the time he could see the lanterns of the docks up ahead, Raife was certain someone was following him. He'd trailed enough people himself to know the signs of a stalker, even an exceptionally talented one. For the last hour the thief had been trying to give his invisible companion the slip, but every time, before so much as a smug smirk could cross his face, something inside his head would warn him he wasn't alone. 

_Whoever it is, they do this professionally, _he thought, glancing again over his shoulder, knowing he would see only what they wanted him to see: nothing.

His patience was wearing thin as he closed the distance between himself and his destination. So long as the fool made no move to stop him, he couldn't imagine why he needed to confront his unwanted shadow. Still, he found it highly unlikely that someone would trail him for so long, taking such care not to be noticed, just to let him give them the slip by boat. _I can't have anyone following me through a Hammerite stronghold. _The job was difficult enough without a tagalong. He knew instinctively that the person following him was no novice trying to skim some reward off a job-steal, letting him do all the hard work first and then slipping up behind him, knocking him out or killing him, to take the goal and the reward for it. The wretches that did that were not few and far between; he'd seen and barely avoided several pathetic attempts to steal his earned prize. But that was just the thing: job-stealers were pathetic. They had no talent for thieving whatsoever, no possibly chance of reaching any kind of goal without a host thief to feed off. The shadow following him was far too talented to be a job-stealer. With their ability to hide so well in the shadows so that even a fairly adept thief couldn't spot them, Raife doubted they'd do better to let him lead. More likely, if it was a thief, they were planning to take him out before he reached the boat and make a move on the whole job, not just the prize. They'd go faster without him in the way, and maybe that grubby Pagan had found a better gamble.

It had crossed his mind that the shadow trailing him could be the Master Thief, but he quickly eliminated that as a possibility. One, the Master Thief had already turned down this job. Two, although he may have stolen the Eye a few weeks ago for the Hammers, Raife doubted even the Master Thief cared enough to stop him. Three, whoever was following him was not _so_ adept that they had hidden completely. More than once he'd seen a flicker of movement behind him, and even if it were gone before he glanced back, he knew the Master Thief would never be so careless. If it were Garrett, he'd be dead or unconscious already.

Up ahead, under a lantern not more than fifty paces away, he could see a small boat with a lantern lit inside and the gangplank extended to the street. _An odd sight for the docks at night,_ he thought. Most every boat kept themselves dark and locked up at night, whether empty or manned, for safety against thieves. Raife himself had robbed more than a few captains blind while they slept in their bunks. The only reason a boat kept lit and put down its plank was to wait for discreet passengers to board under the cover of night. This was his ride.

Coming to a dead stop at the corner where the buildings dropped off and gave way to the long, coverless stretches of dock, Raife turned around to face the shadow he knew had been moving a moment ago, even without seeing it. "I've been pretty kind," he said, "to let you follow me for so long. But I'm tired, now. I've got things to do, and I plan to do them without you, one way or another."

From the dark, he heard a voice say, "It is imperative that I return with you. I can promise you protection, if you come quietly and make no stupid moves."

"I go nowhere except where I want. As for your protection, I can't imagine I'd want or need it. Who are you?"

"Who I am makes no difference. You must come with me. If you refuse, I will take you with me all the same. There is nothing you can do to resist."

_Is that so? _With his fingers resting on the hilt of his dagger, he highly doubted anyone could force him to do anything he was set against.

"Will you come?" the voice asked again.

"No."

"Then I have no choice."

Something that glistened blue, like the edge of a dagger in moonlight, shot out at Raife, forcing him to leap aside and out of its path. With a curse, Raife threw his own blade back, smirking at the sweet, solid sound of its blade impacting with flesh and bone. The shadow slumped to its knees and rolled to the ground, his upper half exposed in the lantern light. For a moment, he stood frozen in place, looking at the figure on the ground.

Then his blood went cold.

_I've just signed my own death warrant,_ he thought as he inched toward the body. There wasn't a doubt in his mind of who, or what, this man was. The black cloak, the stealth, now it all made sense. Raife bent down beside the Keeper and gingerly nudged the man, half hoping he would find himself bowled over as the Keeper attacked him afresh. Instead, the dead eyes gazed out over his shoulder, unable to register anything but darkness. Even before he knew it, Raife started shaking. He clamped his hands down on his knees, trying to slow his heart rate. Killing citizens, City Guards, Hammerites, Pagans—that was nothing. Sure, their sects would get their feathers ruffled, but most of it was show. They couldn't do much to stop him, and they knew it. But Keepers. He felt another wave of shivers run under his skin from his head to his feet. _I'm going to die. The Enforcers will get me._ He hung his head, too horrified to move away from the lifeless Keeper at his feet. When he was a boy, his mother told him horrible stories about the Enforcers, the silent Keepers who killed grown men with glyphs and spells. Awful, terrible deaths accompanied by screaming, agonized pain. Deaths accompanied by the bitter silence of the Enforcers. There had been a time when the Master Thief was destined, because of his inclinations, to be an Enforcer. _If all of them are as talented as he is, I'm dead before I even try to hide._

Footsteps somewhere down the street had Raife shooting to his feet, his pale face all the more washed out in the electric lighting. No one was near, but a man had come down to stand at the foot of the gangplank of the Pagan boat. _And I'll be dead if I take the stones I have and run._ He'd already deposited his first half of the payment in a safe place in the city; he doubted the Pagans would wait long for his next move. If he didn't take the boat, would they think he had double crossed them? Normally, he might think nothing of it, but now with a dead Keeper on his hands, even a Pagan death-threat seemed more likely to have serious consequences. _I can't just leave him here. Might as well buy some time. _

As quietly as he could, Raife dragged the body to the edge of the nearest dock and lowered the corpse into the water. With the heavy cloak, the body went right to the bottom as soon as the cloth was waterlogged. Then, just to be on the safe side, the thief loosed a water arrow on the pool of blood half-hidden by shadows. _Better safe than sorry,_ he thought. _What's one water arrow in exchange for a few more days of life?_

As he turned to make the rendezvous with the Pagan ship, however, a dark and unnerving thought crossed his mind. _Why would a Keeper be following me? _There was only one reason he could think of, and if they'd found him, the chances that they'd tracked down Megan and Daphne was almost a sure thing. Even before he realized it, Raife was sprinting back down the dark street that would eventually lead him to Old Quarter again, but he forced himself to a stop. Standing in the shadows for a moment, he turned around slowly and began back toward the docks. _She said they don't need my help, _he thought, turning the corner and seeing the boat and its captain once again. _I can't keep bailing them out. This is their problem, not mine. Besides, I don't even know where they are anymore. They must have left at sundown for the compound, maybe they walked right into a trap like I said she would. If I'm going to do my own thing again, I've got to stop getting myself tied up with them… Yeah, I've done real good so far, killing a Keeper,_ his mind added with a bitter note.

He stepped out into the lantern light as he approached the gangplank. _I'm on my own, now. I won't give them any reason to think they control me like a puppet. _"I believe you're waiting for me," he said to the man standing on the plank.

The captain looked him up and down and nodded. "I expected someone like you. Don't think because I'm doing this that you can help yourself to anything on the boat. I'm ferrying you to the island to pay off a debt I owe the Pagans."

"I'm a professional," Raife said, feeling the word roll off his tongue with a new sweetness. _I can say that now. I'm being paid as a professional to do this job._ "Not a petty thief. I doubt there's much in this vessel that could tempt me."

The captain snorted and stepped aside, waving a hand toward the gangplank. "Then let's be off. I don't want to have this job hanging over my head any longer than it absolutely has to."

_You're not the only one,_ Raife thought as he crossed on the thin board over to the deck of the ship. Now, there was definitely no chance of turning back. Not that there ever had been. The moment his hand touched the sack of gems, he knew he was in it for the long haul. _And I hope my death isn't the result,_ he thought, standing at the bow of the ship. Somewhere in the night, he heard a woman shriek, and he felt his hands gripping the railing of the boat. _It was nothing. Just some stupid rich woman being robbed of her jewels on her late evening stroll._

But as the boat drifted away from the docks and out into open water, the voice in his ears had slowly changed from a woman to a girl, from a stranger's voice to a friend's. _She asked for this when she went to them,_ he thought, scowling at the waves splashing up and over the tip of the boat. _If she didn't want Keepers involved she should have stayed away from them like everyone else. Stupid girl. She's going to get them all killed. She's going to get herself killed._

"Sir, are you alright?" the captain called from the steering cabin. "Feeling the sea a little in your stomach? Helps to hang over the side. I don't want to be cleaning up after you."

"I'm fine," Raife barked back, turning to stare out at the bobbing horizon. He could already make out the silhouette of Northermeed Island and the massive structure rising off it. A few lights in high windows shone out in the night, still far away enough to be confused for stars. The thief focused on that and on his plans for getting inside.

Still, despite all his efforts, he could still hear Megan screaming in his head.

* * *

She woke up talking. Just talking, on and on, about things that didn't seem to make any sense. It wasn't the first time she'd spoken in her sleep, but she'd never recalled waking up in the middle of it. She listened to herself speak for a while, but the words were distant and sounded as though they were spoken behind a thick wall of glass, as though her mouth was in a place entirely separate from herself. Slowly the fog in her ears faded, and she began to make out words, clips and pieces at first, like tuning an old car radio back and forth with the dial. Then all of a sudden, as happens when tuning radios, everything came in sharp and clear. 

"…I told you already, my name is Daphne Dawson, and I go to Halyin High School. I'm a tenth grader, and I've already taken my SAT preps. I didn't do as well as I liked, so my parents—their names are Winnie and George Dawson, my father is a chiropractor, my mother is a sub at school—signed me up for a prep course, which I am probably missing as we speak, unless somehow time has stopped while Megan and I are in the game. As for how we got here, I haven't the foggiest. You can ask me as many times as you want, it doesn't matter, I haven't a clue. Stuff like this happens in movies-"

"Movies?" said a voice that sounded familiar. "What is a movies?"

"Not _a _movies, _the_ movies. Any kind of film based on a story. You know, Men in Black, Armageddon, Lord of the Rings—I particularly liked the actor who played Legolas. Not many guys can pull off long blond hair, but there you go! Just shows you how much I know about what can be attractive. But it's more than that, you know, I think any guy who wears a cloak and uses swords to kill people is always vastly more attractive than even our modern-day bad boys with motorcycles and hand guns. I mean, really, who ever heard of a romantic hero sweeping his lady of choice off her feet while riding a Harley? That doesn't even make sense. Besides, someone would be bound to get hurt, and that's just not romantic-"

"For goodness sake, Keeper Cyrus, would you remove the Vocal Glyph and shut her up for a while? My head can't take much more of this nonsense." Another voice, not familiar.

"Tell me how you got here." Ah, that was the familiar one again, addressing her.

"…It's impossible to say really. At first, when we showed up in front of Raife, I said the Trickster had brought us, but I was just gassing. I had no idea, it just sounded good at the time. Megan corrected me though, probably kept us both from certain death- Raife's a bit jumpy about the subject, but that's what confuses me. He just headed off, all by himself, to do some Pagan errand, which strikes me as odd considering how much he seems to dislike the Trickster. But that's besides the point I guess, what really matters is-"

"Who is this Raife? What kind of errand is he on?"

"…oh, he's just another thief, like Garrett, only a bit soft-headed if you ask me. He acts all tough and whatnot, but the first time we met him he pulled a fire arrow by a window, which I didn't catch as a bad thing right off, but Megan pointed out that anyone down below would see us by its light, and then I realized it was a completely stupid thing to do, and something only a novice or stupid thief would do. But I don't really think he's stupid, not at all, actually. A little—um—untrained perhaps is the best word, though I was also thinking maybe unskilled, but that's not really right either, and then I thought maybe I'd use the word unpolished—actually, now that I think about it, that seems to fit better-"

An exasperated sigh. "The errand! What was the errand?"

"…how should I know? All I saw was the letter Megan brought in to me which was sealed with a Pagan symbol and written in blood. Why do they do that, by the way? It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to write a note, but then again, I guess it's a ritual or something, or maybe they just like the way it looks on paper, it makes sense, I guess, though not really to me, but then again, I've never been the notebook obsessed one, I'd think Megan would know more about that. Pens and paper and that sort of thing. She's always got a notebook or a sketchbook on her, but then again, not recently, and I'm not sure how much she kept up with it this year in school, she mostly jotted down notes on homework sheets-"

"So you know nothing about what the errand was?"

"..,only that he's supposed to drop off the trinket at the same place I ran into Adrianna, which let me tell you is one spooky place. Moving trees, crazy animals, and then there's the Pagans! Oh, don't get me started on that, I could talk for-"

A door slammed open and it sounded as though several people entered. "Keeper Cyrus, that's enough! Release her at once!" Another familiar voice, but wasn't the one from the inn. Who was it, now? So familiar. She was sure she'd heard it a thousand times, if only she could see his face… or anyone's face. For the first time, she realized she couldn't see a thing. It was like her voice was detached and hovering in a dark pit, maybe falling, maybe fixed in place.

The ongoing sound of her voice cut off suddenly and everything erupted into chaos. She could see again, lots of faces, but she was too engaged with gasping air into her aching lungs than looking around. It felt as though she hadn't been breathing for hours, and as she inhaled, she tasted the strong, copper taste of blood in her mouth. Her tongue and inner cheeks burned, her jaw felt ready to fall off. Someone was kneeling beside her, taking her jaw in their cold, smooth hand and turning her face toward them. Her vision had gone black again when air started pouring back into her lungs, but now the centers were clearing again and she could make out the face leaning over her. Artemus. _I knew I recognized that voice!_ Daphne thought with a sigh of relief that lasted only a moment before degrading into a coughing fit.

"How long have you been using that glyph on her?" It was Artemus again, his voice cold and bitter as he looked over her at a cluster of people standing a little ways off. She couldn't make out who they were, but she suspected one of them was the Keeper from the inn. "She's bit her lip and tongue repeatedly, her cheeks are swelling, she's almost blue from suffocating. That glyph takes a lot of energy out of the person you use it on! You could have killed her!"

"They have information we need, Keeper Artemus," the voice Daphne now associated with Keeper Cyrus said, his voice firm as though tone alone would protect him from repercussions. "If we don't use the Vocal Glyph, how will we ever discover what they know?"

"They know nothing," a voice said from the far corner. Someone near the origin of the noise stifled a gasp and shifted away. There was no doubt in Daphne's mind who was speaking, now. She'd listened enough to Stephen Russell's voice to know that deep, grating tone anywhere. "If you had waited for me at the clock tower as I instructed you to, you'd already know that."

The Keeper called Cyrus turned to face the Master Thief as Garrett stepped out of the shadows and into the slightly better lighting of the room. "And I suppose you have all the answers to my questions?" the Keeper growled, un-intimidated—perhaps foolishly—by the cloaked man standing before him.

"I have answers to some questions," the Master Thief replied, clearly irritated by the tone the Keeper had taken. "Whether or not you know the right thing to ask is still uncertain."

"Garrett, please." Artemus rose from the bed, and Daphne felt the mattress rise beside her. The moment his cold hand left her face, her mouth began burning again. "Keeper Cyrus, take the Slumber Glyph off the other young lady. She'll need to hear what is said in this room as well."

Someone from the far side hurried to obey the order for Cyrus, and within moments, Daphne heard the hiss of a dissolving glyph and a familiar squawk of anger. There was a shuffle as Megan leapt to her feet and looked about ready to jump over Daphne's bed to get at Keeper Cyrus. Someone stopped her, because she started to thrash and curse at the same time.

"Megan, calm down!" Artemus said, clutching her arm. "Everything is alright, now. We won't let him use anymore glyphs on you, I promise you that myself. If he does, I give you full permission to do to me whatever it is you'd like to do to him now."

His calm voice stopped her charge, but she trembled as she stood, her fists clenched in front of her, as if ready to tear apart Keeper Cyrus's throat were it close enough to lock her fingers around. Daphne pitied Artemus; she wasn't entirely sure he had control over what Cyrus did and didn't do, and from the look on Megan's face, Daphne doubted anyone would want to be on the receiving end of whatever she planned for Cyrus. But instead of forcing her way past Artemus, Megan glanced down at her and asked, voice shaking with her attempts to keep the growl under control, "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

Daphne opened her mouth to reply, but found her voice was all but gone, worn out by the Vocal Glyph. She nodded quickly and forced a smile that seemed to at least convince Megan that she wasn't in any serious pain.

The whole time, Garrett stood apart, watching the scene with detached interest. What were two strange girls to him? "Are you planning to stand around all night or are we going to make some progress?" the thief asked, ignoring the biting glare Megan tossed in his direction.

Artemus sighed and carefully guided Megan to the other bed where she could sit without giving her the impression that he was telling her what to do. She seemed too distracted by both the Master Thief and Keeper Cyrus to notice much of what he did. "We are going to make progress, I hope. But that depends mostly on what you have to tell us. Keeper Cyrus, if you would be so kind—stay quiet."

"I'm in charge of this investigation!" Keeper Cyrus cried. "I will not have you taking it out from under me, Artemus, just because you have some- strange acquaintances who can at times be a powerful asset."

Megan tensed up, ready to jump to her feet, mouth already contorting for a string of insults, but Artemus spoke first and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her from rising. "If you want to learn anything at all, I suggest you remain quiet, Cyrus," Artemus said. "I have no doubts Garrett could expel you from this room, and I doubt Miss Megan would have any problem helping him do that, though somehow I think he might be more gentle than she would be at this moment."

Keeper Cyrus closed his mouth against further protest and cast a glance that was for the first time slightly uncomfortable toward the Master Thief. Artemus nodded to Garrett, and the thief began. "I went to Old Quarter like the Hammerites wanted," he said. "It took me longer than I anticipated to find the place they indicated. An old warehouse, they said. As though there aren't hundreds of them in Old Quarter. The one I wanted was a crumbling old building not far from the docks. There were two Pagan graves in front of it. Shallow. Fresh. Unmarked. The cobblestones were shattered and loose there, didn't take much effort to clear some dirt."

"You dug up the bodies?" Artemus asked, his voice tinted with disgust.

"What else was I supposed to do? Pay my respects?" The Master Thief's bitter voice cut into the silence. "I thought there was a possibility whatever the Hammers wanted was buried with a corpse. It wouldn't be the first time a Pagan relic was a piece of rotting flesh."

"And did you find what the Hammerites wanted?"

"No, not there. But I did find something strange. Both corpses were missing pieces. One had no torso at all, and the other had no head."

"Some kind of punishment? Torture victims? Are you certain both were Pagan?"

"I know a Pagan grave when I see one," Garrett muttered. "Both were dressed in Pagan clothes, fingernails were long and cracked, toenails too. I don't know any citizens that keep themselves in such a state of disrepair. Both had Pagan tattoos someplace on their rotting flesh. What caught my attention was this." The thief reached into his cloak and pulled out a small pouch. He reached in and brought out a handful of dirt, but it wasn't just dirt. In even the dim light of the room, Daphne could make out a faint glimmering, like someone had mixed a whole bunch of glitter into the dirt. "Conjuring dust," the thief said. Artemus barely got a closer look before Garrett dumped the dirt back into the pouch and brushed the clinging dust off his gloved hands. "But that's just the beginning. Inside the warehouse, where this thing the Hammerites wanted was supposed to be, there was nothing. Only a table."

"That's all?"

"The floor was splattered with dry blood, and the whole place smelled of rotting flesh. That wasn't surprising, considering what I'd just dug up in the front. What I found even stranger than the graves and the state of the corpses was the table these men seem to have been executed on. Besides the whole thing being lightly dusted with the same stuff from the graves, there were a few particular patches on the surface where it seemed the wood of the table had absorbed some of the blood. Those patches were sprouting."

Artemus took a step back, his eyebrows crunched down. "Sprouting? As in, the table was sprouting new growths?"

"One twig even had a few buds on it."

"How is that possible?" Keeper Cyrus had kept himself silent long enough and could no longer bare being kept outside the discussion. "A table doesn't just sprout new branches!"

"Most tables don't, no," the Master Thief replied. "But most tables aren't used in Pagan rituals, either."

"Do you have any idea what this all means? What are the Hammerites looking for?" Artemus asked.

For a moment, Garrett stood silently as though deciding exactly how to say what was on his mind. "I think," he said slowly, "we are not looking for a _what_, but a _who._"


	12. In Which Pagans Are Very Unpopular

**Chapter Twelve**

The Keepers were silent, and Megan couldn't tell if they were waiting or stunned. She was just about to open her mouth when Cyrus asked the question they'd all formed in their minds. "A _who_? The Hammers are looking for a _person_?"

The Master Thief cast a cool glance on the Keeper, though he spoke to Artemus. "The graves, the dust, and the sprouting table," he began, sounding in no hurry whatsoever to appease anyone's curiosity, "would suggest that the Pagans have resurrected someone. It at least explains the conjuring dust and the regeneration of life on the table."

"What about the graves?" Artemus asked.

"Pagans like sacrifices." The thief sounded bored.

Cyrus seemed a little tempered by this information, and when he spoke he was cool and calm again. "How much conjuring dust did you find at the scene?" he asked. "Most pagan ceremonies only take a handful."

With his knife, the thief slit the pouch strings from his belt and tossed the bag full of dirt and dust to the Keeper. "There's a lot more where that came from," he muttered. "But you can get it yourself."

The voices which had gone silent from the related news were slowly returning, and the other Keepers began speaking in hushed tones to each other as Cyrus opened the drawstring of the sack and took a pinch of the dirt out to examine in the light. Artemus sighed.

"Thank you, Garrett," he said. "If you have no other information, you may go."

The thief's upper lip curled. "I'll go when I want. It seems to me that you Keepers are holding some information back from me, and I want to know what it is."

"We're hiding nothing from you," Keeper Cyrus growled. "We know only as much as you've told us, and that's hardly anything. For the Builder's sake, we've got some conjuring dust and a criminal who says he _thinks_ the pagans have resurrected someone! What does any of that matter to us? How does it get us any closer to knowing what _these_-" He waved a haphazard hand toward Megan and Daphne. "-are doing here?"

"Cyrus, don't make this a battle," Artemus said, his tone measured with just the right balance of calm and threat. Then turning to Megan for the first time since the discussion began, he said, "Do you know anything more about this?"

Frowning, she shook her head. So what if the pagans had resurrected someone? She didn't see how that tied in to her and Daphne. But even if she did know something more, she wasn't going to say a word while Keeper Cyrus was in the room. "I only know what you've told me," she muttered, glaring at her hands in her lap. Daphne glanced over at her, perhaps surprised that she hadn't mentioned Raife's errand. _I'm not going to feed him to the wolves, just because I'm mad at him,_ she thought, fighting the urge to frown deeper. _He doesn't need any more trouble than we've already given him. _

Artemus watched her carefully, his eyes scrutinizing her face for long enough that she glanced up at him, worried that he might have read more in her face than she intended. Keepers could do that sort of thing; she'd have to be more careful.

"Where- are our- friends?" Daphne said suddenly, though she stumbled over the words as though each syllable gave her great pain.

Artemus looked over at Cyrus, who seemed too interested in the dirt Garrett had brought back to be listening to anything said in the room. But after a moment of deliberate silence, he replied, "We left them where they were. We had no business with them."

"What about Jenivere?" Megan asked. "Is she alright?"

Artemus' face looked strained. "She's fine, but we moved her to a more comfortable location to give birth. Miss Megan, I know Basso was one of your companions. You broke him out of jail, didn't you?"

At that moment, Megan remembered why she disliked Keepers so much. It wasn't just Cyrus, it was all Keepers and deliberate, selective truths. It hadn't been Cyrus who neglected to inform Garrett about Basso's fatal situation, it had been Artemus. Why was she letting herself think of him as a friend, a rescuer?

Her anger renewed, she shrugged his hand from her shoulder, glowering. "I had to do something. You were going to let him hang, even after his wife asked to you for help! You didn't even mention to Garrett that he was in Pavelock."

"What would that have done?" the Master Thief asked from across the room. "I don't have time to bail incompetents out of prison. I assume Artemus knew that, and didn't bother annoying me with a request."

Megan jumped to her feet, and no amount of soothing words from Artemus could get her to stop from storming over to stand in front of the thief. "He's your friend!" she yelled. "He's helped you before, I know he has! And you're not above giving him help, or you would never have helped him run off with Jenivere in the first place!"

The thief's eyebrows lifted momentarily in surprise, but the look quickly melted into one of dark suspicion. "How do you know about that?" he asked, his voice very low, very grating.

Had she been paying more attention, she might have realized he was growing steadily more irritated, and also more dangerous, but just imagining that he would leave Basso in jail to hang, for no reason than that he was too lazy to bother- She wanted to tear him apart. His glittering black eyes, his dark hair, the arrogant way he looked down his nose at her, there was something very familiar about it that boiled her blood. _Give him ten, twenty years,_ she thought, _and he'll be just the same as his idolized Master Thief--if he manages to survive that long. He'll hear you're in trouble, and he'll just vanish into the dark. He won't have time for you. He won't have time for anyone but himself. Let him get slaughtered by the pagans! He'd let the same happen to you. _

"I know about that," she continued, barreling forward with the momentum that had built up around another subject not entirely related to the Master Thief, "because I've played you. I've been you. I know all your moves, all your tricks. I've been inside your head, and I've _controlled_ you. How do I know about that? I know because I was the one who did it. Through you. _Like a puppet_."

The strike came out of nowhere like a solidified shadow and struck her hard across the face. As she fell, she heard Daphne yell, she heard Artemus shouting something, but all she could focus on was not letting her head strike the stone floor. Her hands caught her just in time, but everything else went reeling. The entire right side of her head felt on fire, and her eyes had a hard time focusing. Despite that, she was distinctly aware of the dark figure standing over her, his figure alone speaking to the superiority he held over her. She'd asked for it. She'd pushed the button specifically _because_ she'd wanted a reaction, and she got one.

"Don't _ever_ say that to me again," the Master Thief snarled, and though he stood above her, the words sounded as though they had been spoken directly into her ear. Stinging, painful words to go with the bruised side of her face.

"And what if I do?" she rasped back.

"I'll kill you," the thief replied quietly. There was no doubt in her mind that he would.

The anger that had fueled her temper was dying away quickly under that cold shadow, and as much as she hated it, she began shaking. Whether from the blow or simply because every inch of her body was releasing the rage in a rush, leaving her empty and cold, she couldn't tell; her face burned, the rest of her shook like bare branches exposed to a frigid winter gust.

Someone had moved in beside her and was carefully lifting her from the ground. She thought it might be Artemus, so she yanked herself free of their grasp. The side of her lip was split; she could taste the blood now. She pressed her fingers against the cut to hold it closed, and sank onto the foot of the bed behind her.

Something else was going on in the room, now, something not related to her confrontation with the Master Thief. The voices had started up with new vengeance, but her ears were still ringing and she couldn't understand what was said. The gentle hand was on her shoulder again, but she forgot to shake it off. Just feeling something sturdy helped calm her trembling. Someone sat beside her, holding her other hand. She assumed that must be Daphne, but she still couldn't quite tell. The thief hadn't pulled his punch, even for a girl. She should have expected as much. There is no honor among thieves.

Words came in clips and phrases, but none of them seemed to add up to anything with meaning.

"-need some-"

"-out by the-"

"There…water by the-"

"We shouldn't have-"

"-Enforcers are the-"

"-one of our own!"

People were moving about the room, leaving in a great hurry. The door opened and closed several times, and finally the room was almost bare of the unrecognizable voices that had gathered there earlier, perhaps under Cyrus' request, perhaps out of apathetic curiosity. Megan felt the hand constricting around hers, felt someone speaking to her directly, but she wasn't listening to that voice. The Master Thief was speaking again.

"Do you think I care that someone killed a Keeper?" He sounded bored again, but she thought his voice was slightly more raspy than before. "I've got bigger things to do than track down someone you aggravated by your snooping."

"We hadn't expected him to kill Pathnar," Artemus replied. He sounded overly strained as well. "We only wanted to know where he was going. I had a feeling that he might have taken the job you declined for the Pagans, and I don't think I was wrong, especially now."

"Raife," Megan muttered, thinking she had made the sound only in her head until Artemus' voice replied.

"Your other friend, the one who wasn't in the warehouse with you," he said. "Daphne said he had taken a job for the Pagans, isn't that right? To steal the Eye from the Hammerites?"

She shook her head. Damned if she was going to say another word. Something was wrong, and Raife had gotten himself into another mess, she was sure. Daphne's voice hit her next, surprisingly close, though low and grating as though spoken through an incredibly sore throat. "He's killed a Keeper, Megan," she whispered. "They're talking about sending the Enforcers after him."

"They'll never catch him," Megan replied, wishing her voice sounded more convincing.

"We have to get out of here." Daphne's whisper was so soft, Megan wasn't certain she hadn't simply thought the words. "He's really in trouble now."

"So what if he is?" Megan hissed back. Artemus' hand had slipped away from her shoulder and her vision was clearing. The majority of the Keepers had already left, and the Master Thief had slipped away undetected as usual, but Artemus and Cyrus, plus one or two others, stood off in the far corner, speaking quickly and quietly amongst themselves.

"The Eye and a resurrection," Cyrus was saying. "If this applies to the Pagan prophecy, we could have a real problem on our hands."

"And just how do the girls fit into this? What does it mean?" Artemus lowered his voice even more with a quick glance over at where she and Daphne sat. Just seeing Artemus conspiring with Cyrus made her blood run hot again, though she lacked the energy to work herself up into a true, burning temper again. All the Keepers were the same. Every one of them had their own private agenda; if Artemus seemed kind in comparison to Cyrus, it was only because gentle words and a smile helped him achieve his goals as quickly as possible. Perhaps Cyrus didn't need to fake kindness to get his work done, he certainly seemed coldly efficient.

"I don't know what it is that makes you dislike Raife so much that would make you so angry that you won't even consider helping him," Daphne said, drawing her attention back, "but you know as well as I do that the Eye is bad news. It's always been bad for the thief who steals it."

"It's not what I _dislike_ about him," Megan muttered, hanging her head. "Besides, what could we do? We don't even know where he went. We'd probably just get in his way."

"He's our friend, Meg. The Keepers seem to know a fair amount about this situation. Maybe with a little- eh- thief-like snooping we can figure out what we need to know. We have to try."

"And get him killed in the process? Lead the Enforcers straight to him?"

"Those Enforcers will find him sooner or later. He'll have a better chance if we're all watching out for each other. Besides, the Hammers and the Keepers aren't exactly bosom buddies. It's pretty well know the Keepers do their own thing, regardless of religious correctness."

Megan's vision had cleared to normal, now, and she glanced up at Daphne's face. Her friend was stern, convinced that they needed to do this, but all she could think of was the thief's last words before he left. He may not have realized she heard what he said to Basso, but she had. Every syllable of it. And every one of them twisted in her stomach, now. _Once you and your wife get on that boat, make sure those two are on the docks behind you. Get away while you can._

"He doesn't want us hanging around him," she muttered. "We've all got our own business, now."

"And what's our business?" Daphne's face had contorted into actual anger, an expression Megan rarely, if ever, saw from her. "What is this important business? As far as I can tell, we've only gotten more confused about what we're doing here. We might have been able to ask Garrett for some advice, but you've successfully burned that bridge, thanks a lot. The only thing we can do is decipher what all is going on. You said yourself that all of this is related, and the Keepers seem to think so, too. Let's start by keeping Raife from getting slaughtered by Enforcers; which again, is our fault. He would never have been mixed up with the Keepers if he hadn't gotten tangled up with us. We owe it to him. Again."

"He doesn't _want_ our help," Megan snapped. "He wants us to leave him alone."

"Well, that sucks for him, doesn't it?" Daphne hissed, standing up. "Because I'm going to help him anyway, and I'm taking you with me. We got separated once, I'm not going to let us be separated again. Besides, he always says he doesn't want us around, but he's the one who won't leave until you drive him off with all your bickering."

Megan paled. "I didn't drive him away. He _wanted_ to go. I just let him."

Daphne lifted an eyebrow and glanced over at the group of Keepers. "I'm finding a way out of here the moment they leave. Are you coming or do I have to assume you want to cooperate with them in their plans?"

Both looked over at the Keepers, who were too absorbed with each other's discourse to pay much attention to two girls. Artemus was frowning and Cyrus looked pleased. That was definitely not good.

"Fine," Megan whispered, "but if Raife starts whining at me and saying I'm following him around like a puppy, you step in and clarify that this was all your idea."

Daphne's serious face melted briefly. "Good."

* * *

The seas had gotten wild the moment the ship left the bay. Night had fallen hard and a cold rain drizzled down on the dark, hunched figure at the bow. His face was pinched against the squall, but his eyes stayed pinned on the bobbing lights now not far ahead. They were close enough that he could see shadows crossing in front of the windows, shadows he knew carried enormous three foot metal mallets, specially made for crushing the heads of inexperienced thieves. _Luckily I'm not inexperienced, _he thought as a splash of foam hit him in the face. The shape of Northermeed Island blurred momentarily until he used the inside of his cloak to clear the saltwater from his eyes.

The anxiety which had begun back at the docks while the dark body of the Keeper sank down below the moored ships had intensified as he drew closer to his destination. How hard would it be for them to track him down? How long would it be until they knew? They could know already.

He glanced back toward the stern of the boat, straining his eyes for a sign of a ship following them. What would it feel like to be killed by Enforcers? Painful, yes, excruciating even, but more than that: what would it feel like to die? He wanted to think confident thoughts, that they'd never track him down, that he was far too intelligent to be caught off guard, but all the words seemed hollow and faded quickly from his mind.

"We're going to pull around the rear of the island," the captain shouted over the grumbling of the storm. "Hold tight. The rocks back there stir up some pretty mean waves and riptides. I'll drop you off as close to the shore as I can, but you'll have to get your feet wet."

"Great," the thief muttered, hunching into himself even more as the cathedral windows slowly shifted from dead ahead to off on the left. The waves grew choppier and splashed readily over the railing, making the thief's scowl darken. _At least I'll already be soaked by the time I jump in._

The boat edged around, its pace slowing as it grew closer to the rear of the island. The thief gripped the side to keep his footing as the boat pitched over the waves. This back half was deeply dark, no windows looked out on this side. It was probably the best place to land, but at the same time, the thief wished he'd had more say in his starting location. The front may be better lit, and thus more dangerous, but that also meant he could see better himself, allowing for more stealth and swifter entry. The back was generally safer, but only once he got onto the shore, which was still a good twenty feet away across frothing waves and dragging tides. He'd be exhausted by the time he set foot on land, and that was always a bad way to begin a campaign.

"This is it! Come here a minute!" The captain's voice, though he yelled, barely made it up to the bow of the boat. The thief hurried back to the helm. "This is the map I was supposed to deliver to you upon arrival," he said, handing over a rolled parchment. "I have some instructions for you as well, from the Pagans."

"And those are?"

"On no account should you be seen while inside. This is the most fortified base the Hammerites have, and they will lock down the minute they sense something is wrong. Second, which also plays into the same theme, don't kill anyone."

"What?" The thief leaned forward. "How am I supposed to get in there if I can't kill anyone?"

"They've got a lot at stake and don't want their cover blown before they're ready. Anything that seems out of place or suspicious to the Hammers will trigger an expansive investigation, and you'll never get out again, much less get whatever it is the Pagans want. Of course, this means you also can't disable anyone. Any vacant guard post is certain to set off concern."

"This is suicide!"

"Maybe so, but that's your business, not mine. Lastly, I'm not hired to give you a ride back. You'll have to find some other means of getting off the island undetected."

Raife gaped at the captain. "How do they expect me to do all this?" he demanded.

The captain shrugged. "As a _professional thief_, I'm sure you'll be able to find a way." It was obvious the man was enjoying his role as the carrier of bad news. "You'd better get going. I need to get back into port before this storm becomes worse."

"I don't believe this," the thief muttered, wrapping the map up in an oil cloth to keep it from disintegrating while he swam to shore. He repeated the sentiment multiple times as he moved to the railing, stared down into the black, frigid water snarling at him, and finally, with a grunt, jumped in.

It was colder than he thought it would be, and almost immediately the air rushed out of his lungs. When he broke the surface, everything around him was pitch black. Only the creaking of the boat behind him told him which way to swim. Wave after wave slapped him in the face, and more than once the thought of dangerous creatures lurking beneath him in these dark, angry waters spurred him toward the rocky shore with extra vigor. Once or twice he felt his hand jam into a slippery, algae covered rock, and by the time he dragged himself halfway out of the water onto the shore, he felt like he had already run into a troop of Hammerites and their mallets. With a choking groan, he rolled onto his back and stared up at the top of Haverham Cathedral, which from this side was only distinguishable as a dark, looming mass of shadow. The creaking of the boat was now far off, barely audible. A few moments later, it faded entirely, and he was certain there was no chance of retreat.

It took some time, but at last he regained some strength, and pushed himself to his feet. He stood, contemplating his next move as he searched his pockets. _First things first,_ he thought, pulling out the map. _Making plans without looking at the map is something those girls would do. _The map had escaped serious damage, but here and there the saltwater had gotten through and soaked patches, leaving the rest rather damp. Still, it was readable, save for running ink in a few selected spots, but from what he could tell, those spots weren't terribly important to his plans, anyway.

Now, taking a much closer look at the map, he began to plot his entrance. There were several ways to enter the cathedral, though only one would provide cover from patrolling sentries. This was a secret door on the western side of the building, not far from where he stood now, and if he could find it in the dark, it would allow him perfect, unnoticed access to the inner corridors. Of course, this entrance was also farthest from his ultimate location: the secret passages inside the walls. If he went in through the hidden doorway, it would dump him out in a very large, very well lit hallway. There may be no guards outside of it, but inside there was no guarantee he wouldn't walk right into a patrol or an acolyte group heading to some religious service.

There was, of course, another entrance, which though a little better guarded, would lead him directly to the secret halls via a series of caves under the cathedral. The trick was slipping past the guards who stood at the opening of the caves, making sure that people just like him didn't get inside. And not being able to kill or knock them out was certainly going to make things more difficult.

_If they see me,_ he thought, _I'm taking them out. I don't care what those damned pagans have to say about it: it's my skin. _He knew the Enforcers would probably pick him up once he got back to the mainland, but he wanted to at least live until then.

This entrance settled upon, he crept along the wall toward the east side of the cathedral which was not quite so poorly lit. A giant rose window opened up on this side, the stained glass projecting an image of a sturdy hammer surrounded by holy oranges, reds, and yellows onto the rocky ground outside. The thief couldn't hear anything inside, but he had no doubts that through the wall, there were a good number of hammerites on bended knee, paying their respects to the Builder. Pious behavior always put them in a particularly zealous mood for squelching unbelievers. That would be very bad for him, and he seriously began to doubt his desire to complete this task. Two sacks of pagan gems? For this? It hardly seemed a worthy price, now.

The opening to the caves wasn't far from sea level; the map had a note on the side that said these caves were only accessible when the tides were low, and there wasn't any need for guards when the tide was up. Raife glanced up at the overcast sky and wished the moon were visible. From that, he might be able to tell if now was a good time to risk going down; if the tide was half in, the guards might abandon their posts for the night and he could slip by, wet but undetected.

A cold gust plucked at his soaked cloak as he slipped it off his shoulders and balled it up behind a rock. A cloak would be little useful inside; his clothes were dark enough to suit his shadow-blending needs. The extra cloth would only hinder his movements particularly in water, and he wanted to get in and out as quickly as possible. With a quick run of his hand, he double checked all the knives he carried to make sure he hadn't lost one while swimming over. He hadn't, and as far as he could tell, he was as ready as he'd ever be to penetrate the cathedral's defenses. _Here goes nothing._

He stalked forward, creeping on hands and feet to the lip of the cave, where he laid down and listened. Inside, he could hear the water filtering in, probably about knee deep, now, but filling quickly. There didn't seem to be any sound to hint at the presence of guards or even torches, which at least was one lucky break. He lowered himself down into the darkest shadows, the cold water rushing past his knees once again, and waited there for a long time to make sure the minimal sound of his splash hadn't alerted any unseen guards. At last convinced that he was truly alone, he slogged forward, the water steadily rising from knee to thy to waist to chest, until he had to swim toward the back of the cave. In the dark, he couldn't tell if he was making any progress, and occasionally a large wave rolled in behind him, sending a wall of foam and ice water rushing over his head.

He pushed on until his arm collided suddenly with the back of the cave. He cursed and treaded water while he cradled his throbbing hand and wrist, and when most of the immediate pain had subsided—numbed, probably, by the freezing water—he reached out and felt along the wall for an opening. There was none. As far as he could tell, both reaching as far as he could below the surface of the water and above it, there was nothing more to find. The back of the tunnel was flat and impenetrable. Now, cursing more from his bad luck and a possible misreading of the map, he turned back the way he came and swam toward what he thought was the exit. But that, it turned out, was only another dead end. This time, he could feel where the opening was: a good three feet under water. He had come in by that way and the water had swiftly risen behind him, locking him into a tiny air pocket inside the cave.

"Well, at least there's _some_ air," he said aloud to the dark cave. But even after venting some of his frustration through his tone of voice, the statement offered little consolation.


	13. In Which Everyone Needs to Escape

**Chapter Thirteen**

There were no windows in the Keeper Compound, at least in the room Megan and Daphne were housed—a room decorated with beautiful rugs, pictures, bookshelves, a desk, and beds, all just to keep it from looking like a cell. But that's what it was. A cell. A place to hide away prisoners where they had no chance of communication with the outside world where an accomplice might be waiting in the shadows to help engineer an escape. The Keepers had learned from their previous mistake at underestimating their prisoner: the door glyph was gone. The secret panel opened only to a blank stone wall.

At first, it had made Megan angry to find her first plan of escape so efficiently blocked, but only because in deciding to break out, she had hoped they would escape before she had time to reconsider her agreement to it. That hadn't happened, and after a few frustrated words under her breath about the kind of men the Keepers _really_ were, she succumbed to the tangled thoughts in her mind and sat brooding silently at the end of her bed, glaring at the stone walls that held her inside. Daphne was asleep on the other bed. Even after they'd decided to break free, she had still been too exhausted from the glyph the Keepers had used on her to make any useful escape attempt. So now, she slept to regain her strength, and Megan listened to her friend's rasping breaths, allowing their consistency to sooth and numb her mind.

After a while, her own brooding made her feel sick to her stomach and she was tired of listening to herself whine in her head. She had never been a whiner before, and the thought that she was turning into one made her temper flare just enough to make her determined not to stay in the Compound any longer than she absolutely had to. At first, she had hoped the bookshelves would provide some information that could be useful—she suspected that the Keepers did not normally keep people in this room who were also capable of using glyphs, and thought one of the tomes might contain a hint as to how to _make_ a glyph—but she found nothing but a few text books about the history of the city. She pushed the books back onto the shelf with force, calmed a little by the heavy thump of their hard covers on the wood.

She moved over to the desk, finding there only quills and paper for writing. She turned the blank sheets over in her hands and sighed, glancing back at Daphne who had slept through the thumping of books. But then, Daphne had always been an extraordinarily heavy sleeper. What had she said earlier? _We might have been able to ask Garrett for some advice, but you've successfully burned that bridge, thanks a lot._

Megan shook her head. "I highly doubt Garrett is the type to accept an apology note," she said to herself aloud.

What a mess. Everything was going wrong, and it was mainly her fault. They had been at her house when the game went weird and they found themselves in the game. She had let Daphne go off on her own to find health potions, and they'd been separated for what felt like years. She had successfully managed to say just the wrong things and make the Master Thief first just suspicious of them, and now openly hostile. Raife hated her. Basso had depended on her, and she hadn't been able to do anything for him. If Raife hadn't been there to help her break Basso out of jail, both she and the lock-pick would have been skewered meat on Pavelock swords. And now, Raife had not only taken a job that would get him all tangled up with the Pagans and who knows what kind of conspiracy that would probably lead to his death, but now—because of her—the Keepers were after him for killing one of their own.

And yet, she was tired of taking the blame for everything. If it was all her fault, then so be it. She had killed someone here; that made her a criminal in this city regardless of whether or not she felt bad about it. There was nothing she could do about that.

With a frown, she picked up the quill and laid out a sheet of paper in front of her. It may do no good at all, she couldn't imagine it would make an impression on him, but she could at least try.

_To Garrett, Master Thief,_

_You have every right to hate me, I've given you no reason to feel otherwise, and I accept that fully. I am not writing this to beg you to forgive me. But please don't hold this against my friend Daphne. She has never done anything to warrant your scorn except hang around with me. She wanted to ask for your advice, but I'm afraid I've made it impossible for you to consider even that. _

_What I said to you was said in anger. The Keepers have been using us all, and I wanted to lash out at one of them, but I lashed out at you instead. I'm not sorry about that, though. If I've given you no reason to like me, you have certainly given me every reason to dislike you. I accept this, and I can't imagine you wouldn't. If working with me is against your principles, I only ask that you consider speaking with Daphne. We both know you have things you'd rather do, but if nothing less, speaking with her will get us both off your back. Not that you necessarily need any help to keep us away from you, but that's not the point. The point is, Daphne would like your help, and I don't want to be the reason you won't speak with her. We all know you're the best thief around, and know more than just about everyone—except the Keepers, but you know how much they revere their secrecy. _

_That's all I wanted to say. _

_Megan Johnson_

For a long time, Megan stared at the sheet of paper and scowled. What good would this do? With a roll of her eyes at her own foolishness for even _thinking_ a note could convince Garrett to do anything he didn't want to do, she folded up the sheet and tucked it into her shirt, feeling the wasted time acutely.

Over on the bed, Daphne stirred and yawned. "Megan?"

"I'm right here," Megan said, getting up from the desk and moving over to her friend's bed. "How are you feeling now?"

"Oh, a lot better, but I'm starving." Daphne sat up; she did look a lot more alive, now. The ashen paleness of exhaustion was gone, and her eyes seemed to actually _see_ things, now, instead of just looking around blankly. "Are they planning to starve us to death in order to keep us from escaping?"

"I wouldn't put that past them," Megan replied, casting a withering glare at the locked door. "The glyph is gone, so we can get out that way. And neither of us know how to _make_ a glyph, only how to use them. There aren't any windows. There aren't—as far as I know—any other secret passages in this place." She shook her head and crossed her arms. "No, they've got us pretty stuck. The only way in and out is through that door."

"And it's locked?"

"Of course."

"Drat." Daphne frowned. "All right, so we've got ourselves into quite a predicament. If we were just playing the game, what would we do?"

"Most likely try to break through the door, which would end up being useless, or we would get through the door and the guard at the end of the hall would see us and lock us right back in here before we could so much as step over the threshold."

"Well, those are obviously out. One, we don't have swords. Two, we wouldn't necessarily know how to use them even if we had them. Three, I've had enough glyphs put on me for one day. I'd really rather avoid being under another one."

"Agreed," Megan said. "So what do we do?"

"What about making a fuss? Calling the guard for help, because one of us has collapsed to the ground and needs medical attention? Artemus doesn't seem to want us dead, does he? Cyrus may not care, but Artemus seems to have a little more say in the matter. Then when the guard comes in, you hit him over the head with one of those heavy looking tomes and we make a break for it."

Megan frowned as she thought. "I suppose. We'll probably be caught, but it's the only idea that seems to have even a remote chance of getting us out of here." She shrugged and then half smiled. "So, are you going to play invalid or am I?"

"I'm probably the one they'd believe was actually at risk," Daphne said. "I'll collapse on the floor. Besides, worst come to worst, we can always claim I collapsed from hunger. Maybe that'll get us fed. I can think better on a full stomach."

"Me too. Alright. Let's get this started!"

Daphne moved over to stand in the middle of the floor, and after a shared nod to get things underway, she let out a short, shrill cry and collapsed in a heap on the rug. It wasn't hard to pretend that it was real; if she hadn't known it was planned, Megan would have completely believed that her friend had just died. She ran to the door and jiggled the handle. Of course, it didn't give, but for an effective portrayal of panic, it seemed to fit. Then, yelling, she hammered her fists on the door.

"Artemus!" she shouted, proud of her convincing tone. "Artemus! Someone! Daphne's sick! I can't get her to wake up! Please! Anyone!"

Almost immediately, there were footsteps in the outer hallway and the scraping of a key in the lock. But instead of the door opening all the way, the Keeper guard only cracked it enough to peer into the room. "What's the problem?" he asked.

"My friend-" Megan gasped. "She just- she fell, and I tried to help her up, but she's unconscious! I think she's really sick! Please, please, help her!"

"All right. Just wait there." Then the door closed, the key turned, and the footsteps receded down the hallway.

Megan waited at the door, listening. The blood thundered in her ears and she couldn't ever be sure if someone was approaching or not. Once or twice, she glanced back at Daphne, who still lay as limp as death. The invalid opened her eyes only once to mouth the words, "Well?" to which Megan shrugged her shoulders and strained for any sign that someone was coming.

"Shows you how much they care about our welfare," Megan muttered under her breath, but just as the last word escaped her lips, she heard approaching footsteps.

Three people, maybe? She couldn't be sure. The key turned in the lock again, and the door opened fully this time, admitting Artemus, the guard, and a small acolyte into the room. Artemus immediately went to Daphne's side, and glanced over his shoulder at Megan. For a moment, she was almost convinced by the concern in his face.

"What happened?" he asked. "Was she just standing, or was she upset?"

Megan wanted to say, "Of course she was upset! You've locked us up, you've allowed her to be put under a life-threatening glyph, and you don't care about our safety one bit!" But instead, she managed to bring tears to her eyes as she shook her head, hands pressed over her mouth. "I don't know," she whispered. "She was fine a moment ago, and then- then-"

"It's alright, Megan," Artemus said in his calm voice. "Gwyth, come help me move her to the bed. Otto, stand by the door please." The guard moved over to help lift Daphne onto the closest bed, and Megan slipped over to the bookshelf. Her heart hammered in her chest and made her hand shake as she pulled out one of the largest books on the shelf as silently as she could. They had hoped for only one grown Keeper, but two?

Artemus was bent over Daphne, taking her pulse, and the guard stood with his back to the door so that he couldn't see Megan stepping up behind him, the book raised over her head. Right when the acolyte saw what she was about to do and let out a cry of surprise, she brought the makeshift blackjack down on the guard's head with a heavy thump. He crumpled where he stood and collapsed to the floor. Artemus' head shot up, his face still too calm to have realized what had happened before Daphne grabbed him around the neck and pulled him down, giving Megan just enough time to deck him across the back of the skull. It was enough. The Keeper sank from the bed to the floor and lay unconscious. Daphne shot to her feet, pale and gasping for breath.

"We have to get out of here," Megan said, tossing the book onto the other bed. Adrenaline rushed through her bloodstream, and for the first time in a long while, she felt strong and in control again. Daphne nodded, and the two of them turned to the door. The acolyte stood staring at them, mouth open, shocked, and looking very small and vulnerable. He wasn't going to offer any resistance, and Megan moved toward him.

"Go over there," she said, pointing at the far corner of the room. "Say nothing. Don't try to run, I _will_ catch you, and I will hurt you."

The acolyte only stared at her, and then slowly, his expression changed from slack-jawed to a grin. "It's you," he said. Megan paused and looked at the boy.

"Who?" she asked.

"You. Where's your thief pal?" the kid asked. "You can tell him my parents noticed the missing candlesticks." His stiff posture faded quickly, and he tilted his head as he looked at her. "I think I liked the first dress you wore, to be honest," he said. "But I guess as a thief, you'd need a more versatile wardrobe."

Megan stared at him, and slowly, recognition dawned on her. "Otto," she said. "How's your dad?"

The son of the guard Paxton lowered his gaze to the floor. "He's dead."

* * *

"Two options," the thief gasped as another wave slapped him in the face. Somehow, despite the salty brine filling his mouth and drying out his lips, speaking aloud made Raife feel like something concrete was being accomplished. His arms ached from the freezing water and the continual effort of keeping his head above the surface. His legs were numb, lead anchors beneath him, and the strain of fighting against their weight was quickly wearing him down. Talking was the only thing that seemed to keep him calm, and that inevitably lead to large amounts of inhaled sea water and coughing fits that threatened to drown him. But it was something to do besides letting his mind focus entirely on the dark depths all around him, or on the quickly thickening air, or on the Enforcers searching for him. Maybe it would be better to drown here.

The thief, in a burst of desperate anger, struck at the water surrounding him with a yell. "I'm not going to die here!" He spat out the water that flooded into his mouth and gasped for air. "I'm a _professional _thief!" he shouted into the muffled dark. "A _professional_ thief does not die like this!"

Another wash of waves splashed into his eyes. The salt burned, but there was nothing dry to wipe his face with. A long, hot string of curses did little to evaporate the water from his face. For a moment, he tried to float on his back again, but his limbs were too numb to make the adjustments needed to keep him on the surface. He'd never been all that good at leisure swimming anyway.

"Two options," he choked. "Dive down and try to find that hole, _if_ this is the right cave. OR try fighting the current out." He tried to breathe deeply, to fill his already aching lungs with the stuffy air. He knew he was too tired to do the latter option. Even thinking about all the work that would be required to propel him through the mouth of the cave and out into the even fiercer shore breakers was sapping him of energy. But the first was suicidal if this was the wrong cave. "It's not the wrong cave. It can't be the wrong cave. I'm a _professional_. Only an _amateur_ would pick the wrong cave. Only an _amateur_ would get themselves drowned because of _one stupid mistake_!" For a moment, he felt stronger, prouder, and found treading in place a little easier. He was just about to declare a second wind when the brief spike slipped away, leaving him more exhausted than before. Now, it was all he could to do push his face out of the water long enough to grab a gasp of air. No more talking. He had to act, or drown.

One option, but it was practically a concession to drown. He wasn't ready to take that last breath yet. Not yet. Not now. Not here. Desperately, he tried to dredge up every single thought that could make him angry enough to keep fighting. The stupid girls were always a good place to start, and for a few minutes, their blundering way of making his life a living hell did get him a few more gulps of air, but not for as long as he thought. He stopped himself from thinking about them before his mind took any unwanted turns. They were useless. No point wasting his last thoughts on them. Instead, he moved onto the Keepers. Who did they think they were to judge everyone and poke their noses into everyone's business? Why couldn't they just leave him alone? What had he ever done to them before that would warrant them wanting to speak with him? It was their fault the one Keeper was laying at the bottom of the harbor, but they wouldn't take the fall for it. He had to take the fall for it. They would kill him, even if he got out of here.

But no matter how hard he tried to dig up some real, explosive rage, he found himself sinking lower and lower between breaths. His mind was willing, but his body was already starting to give in. _I am not an amateur_, he thought, though even in his head, he sounded like he was trying to convince himself. _Will anyone even know or care that I'm gone? Is this all it comes down to? One mistake? _He sank. His lungs burned, already starved for air, and even against his will water started to come up his nose, in through the sides of his mouth; his body rebelled against him, no matter how hard he fought to stay alive. _It can't end like this._ Already he could feel his mind racing, panicking; to panic was certain death, but there was nothing he could do. He opened his eyes under water, fully aware that this was his last conscious movement in life. The salt water burned, but it felt good. Pain meant he was still alive.

But then, he could see himself sinking. Not from outside his body like a spirit, but actually see himself going lower and lower: through the water, he could see an arch in the stone. There was pale light through it. _Move toward the light?_ He didn't care, he forced his limbs to pull him through the arch and suddenly, the cave floor curved upward beneath his feet, growing shallow with each stroke that moved him forward.

His head broke the surface and he gasped and sputtered, coughing out the water from his lungs, flailing to keep afloat. There was light all around him. The air was warm, but not stuffy. His vision was too blurred to see anything as his eyes teared up, trying to wash out the saltwater. He struggled blindly forward until he felt the ground beneath his hands and knees. Crawling another few feet, he collapsed, his head on dry, flat rock while the rest of him was still submerged in the shallows. The waves lapped at his sides, feeling like smooth, damp fingertips stroking his aching muscles. His mind drifted, and he could almost imagine a figure of cool water crouching beside him, rubbing her hands over his back, along his ribs. Her wispy voice speaking some strange, sea language into his ear. With a sigh, he dropped into unconsciousness.

How long he lay there, he couldn't be sure, but when he awoke, his muscles were tight and cold, and it was extremely painful to drag himself up on the stone and out of the water. He shifted and sat up and surveyed his surroundings. It was with an almost giddy rush that he realized he was looking at a small cave with a wooden door and a smoldering torch. His bark of laugher didn't echo; the room was too small.

"I was right!" he said. "I knew it." He nodded his head as his eyes greedily searched the whole space, and while he knew he was grinning like a fool, he didn't care. He was right. "I'm no amateur. No sir. I'm a professional thief. Garrett _himself_ couldn't have found this place. That old dog better just watch it. I'll be taking over his place one of these days." Just hearing his own raspy voice made him laugh, and once he started, he couldn't stop. Soon he was slumped over on himself roaring with laughter. His sides burned and his lungs didn't seem capable of filling up with air, but the laughter possessed him.

When he could finally move, he climbed slowly to his unsteady feet and stumbled up the stone incline to the door, gripping his knotted side, and forcing down the unstoppable chuckles. He pushed open the door with relative ease, wiping the tears of laughter from his face as he stepped into the tunnel.

A roar of recognition jerked him out of his reverie, and before he had taken so much as two strides, a rotting creature stormed toward him, swiping at him with bloody hands. The thief let out a cry of shock and leapt backward as the zombie barreled down on him. His hand landed on the first thing at his belt, which was luckily a flash bomb. He flung it on the ground and heard it snap, and then he couldn't see a thing. The zombie growled, and the thief bolted past, racing down the now empty tunnel, taking any turn that came up in the hopes of shaking any maggot infested pursuer.

It was only when he could hear nothing but his own footsteps that Raife slowed his pace and finally stopped, gasping for air and feeling the cramp in his side with renewed respect for the pain it caused him. His legs shook until he sat down on the ground and leaned his head on his knees, trying to slow his racing heart and get enough air into his lungs.

The silence of the tunnels calmed him quicker than his own efforts, and finally, he pulled out the map, still wrapped in the oil cloth, but now only barely decipherable. The ink had run in many more spots now, though the general shapes of rooms was still readable. Here and there, he could pick out the fainter lines of the secret passages, but never enough to know where they opened or closed. He'd have to pick up a new map once he got into the cathedral, but even that would do him little good; only the pagan map had the secret passages marked on it.

"This is the worst job I've ever taken," Raife muttered to himself. "An island out in the middle of nowhere. Hammers. Dead Keepers. Zombies. Practically getting myself drowned. When I get out of here — alive — those pagans are going to be paying me a _lot more_ than _two bags_ of their stupid gems." He scoffed and forced himself up to his feet. "_Five_ bags wouldn't be enough," he said as he started down the tunnel. "_Ten_ would be barely tolerable. _Twelve_, maybe. _Fifteen?_ Now we're getting somewhere." He glanced down at the map, sighed, and slicked back the strands of hair that had fallen down across his brow. "Well. Here goes nothing."

* * *

It was as if the moment Otto spoke, every word Megan had in her possession suddenly flew down the hall and disappeared into the Keeper Compound's darkest corners. When he had gotten it out of Daphne that they were looking for information Artemus might have, he immediately set off down the hallway, determined to show them to his private quarters where they could look in his daily log of Keeper business. At first, Daphne hadn't been sure if they should trust the kid, but when she voiced her concern to Megan under her breath, the boy heard.

"You can trust me," Otto said as he led them up a back staircase. "I know about you people, how you're thieves and villains. I like that about you. It's more interesting than being here. All the Keepers want is freshly stocked paper and ink, and all I ever learn is math and letters." His little face darkened. "I know why I'm really here. My mum needs to go out and work, and she can't have me at home by myself all day, so she gave me to the Keepers. She said it would be better for me until she got onto her own feet again."

Megan hadn't been able to say a word, but finally, she said, "Otto, you should go back and try to rouse Artemus. I don't want you to get in trouble for us."

"I won't get in trouble," the boy said. "I don't intend to hang around long enough. I'm going with you."

Megan immediately stopped walking, and the boy turned around, his face calm as a poker player's. "No," she said. "Absolutely not. You're only a boy, and it'll be dangerous."

"I'm not _only a boy_," Otto replied. "And I'm coming with you whether you say I can or not, so why argue the point?"

"I won't let you."

"You can't stop me."

"Can we please keep moving?" Daphne asked, her eyes jumping nervously from the top of the stairs to the bottom. "If the Keepers catch us now, we'll be under glyphs for a long time, and there won't be any going anywhere. I'd like to avoid that, if we could."

The boy looked at her blankly and then shrugged, beginning to lead them back up the stairs again. "I'm helping you get the information you need, so you have to let me come with you. It's only fair."

Megan was grinding her teeth, Daphne—who was closer—could hear it. "You're not coming, Otto. If that means you won't help us get the information, then fine. We'll manage without."

"I'm sorry, did you say something?" the boy asked, putting up a hand to his ear as he pretended to listen. "I thought I already said you couldn't stop me. So it's a win-win situation for me. It's only you who will lose out by not getting the information. Besides, I know the best way out of this place, and _you don't_."

"Oh yeah?" Megan replied. "Forget this, Daphne, let's ditch him and get out of here."

"Oh, come on, Meg," Daphne said, almost laughing. "He's just a kid."

"Yeah," the kid mimicked, "I'm just a kid."

"You are not just a kid, you're a brat, and you know it."

Otto grinned over his scrawny shoulder at her and chuckled. "Yeah, I know."

They reached the top of the stairs and Otto led them down a narrow hallway to a door at the far end. There, he placed his hand on the lock and a glyph appeared. He swung the door open and led them into a finely decorated room. To everything else in the plush room, he paid no attention; he made a beeline for the writing table and the red-bound book that sat on the desk.

"Here it is," he said, flipping it open to the latest entry. "While you get the information you need, I'll go get some food and some supplies for us."

"Won't someone know you've taken things from the kitchen?" Daphne asked, eyeing the kid as if to see what his intentions were.

Otto shook his head with a mischievous smile spread wide across his face. "Nope. The minute I got here, I started practicing my thieving skills. Did you know that Master Thief Garrett was once an acolyte here, too?"

Megan rolled her eyes. "Oh, boy. Do we know it."

"See? So there you go!" Otto said. "The Keeper Compound is the perfect place for young thieves to learn the trade." And with that, he disappeared out the door, closing it behind him.

Daphne watched the door for a while and then turned to the log. "Well, at least we'll have the information. I guess if the little squirt turns us in, we'll at least have that out of the way."

"I'm sure the Keepers have a glyph for erasing information," Megan replied. "What are we waiting for? If Otto turns us in, which I doubt though he's perfectly capable of it, we shouldn't still be here. Besides, even if he _doesn't_ turn us in, I'm not going to have him traipsing around with us. I'm not going to let him become a thief by our association. I owe that much to his father."

"Who was his father?" Daphne asked, thumbing through the pages.

"A city guard. He was the one who took myself and Raife in our first night here. But that's not what's important right now. We need to get out of here as quickly as possible. There are probably other glyph doors hidden around here. One may even lead to the sewers which would be a huge help for traveling back to Old Quarter."

"But what about the book?" Daphne asked.

"We'll take it with us."

"Aretmus will know it's missing."

"He'll already know _we're_ missing, so it won't matter. He doesn't need to know Otto helped us. He already suspects I know how to use a variety of glyphs, so let's just get out while we can."

Daphne nodded and tucked the book under her arm. "All right, let's go before the squirt gets back."

They hurried to the door and Megan pulled at the door handle. Pulled _at_ it, because the door was firmly secured and refused to open. Megan struggled with it as much as she could without making too much racket, but it didn't budge.

"That little brat!" Megan spat. "He locked us in!"

"Do you think he's going to get the Keepers?" Daphne shrank away from the door as though there were already a number of Keepers with glyphs ready behind the wall.

But Megan shook her head. "No. The stupid kid is probably just making sure we don't ditch him."

It was just then that the door swung open and Otto reappeared, his arms full of health potions, loaves of bread, a couple apples, and slow-fall potion. When Megan spotted the blue-green liquid, she knew what he had meant when he said he had the best way out of the compound. With the sun having set already, she hadn't seen the stain glass windows Artemus had installed in his room.

"That's a great idea," she breathed as she stared at the windows. Her irritation with the kid wasn't gone yet, but it had certainly softened.

"I got these," he said, gesturing to the health potions, "just in case we don't take enough potion to get us all the way to the ground. And besides, if I remember correctly, thieves seem to need an extra lot of these on hand. Like you said," he added, glancing at Megan, "it's dangerous."

"I know it's dangerous," she replied. "Which is why I don't want you-"

"And I got some food, too!" Otto continued, hardly taking a breath before moving on to the next thing he wanted to brag about. "Here, you better eat. I already ate an hour or so ago, so I'm all set. When you're full, we can take the book and leave immediately. I've sealed the door on the outside with a glyph I made up. It's new. Even Artemus won't be able to figure it out for a few minutes. I mean," he paused and looked a little bashful for once, "it's not ingenious or anything, but it's pretty clever. Artemus said I was made to be a powerful Keeper, but I hate books and prophesies and all that stuff. They just sit around all day and look studious. Besides, the kids here are all dorks. If I can make up even simple glyphs, I'll be an even better thief than Garrett!" His face lit up with glee at the idea, and he plunged into the description of a scenario he had thought up, which involved a lot of walking through walls, turning invisible, freezing guards and victims, and occasionally some knife fighting. "I've been practicing with Keeper Roman," he said, looking quite pleased with himself. "He says what I lack in technical skill, I make up for with speed. Keeper Roman doesn't praise anybody, so you know that means I'm pretty handy with a knife. That'll probably come in useful when we're out there stealing stuff. Like if guard comes in to stop me, I'll just strike out—WHAM!—and he'll be dead before-"

"How can you say those things?" Megan snapped. Otto froze mid-sentence and stared at her, surprised. "Your father was a city guard. He worked so hard to keep this city clear of people like me and Raife; how could you turn your back on everything he's done. Not just that, how could you even _think_ about killing a city guard?"

Otto didn't move or speak for a few long moments, and then—when he did speak—his voice was almost a whisper, though his eyes never left her face. He didn't look angry, only calm and still faintly surprised. "Because the city guards killed my father," he said. "The Sheriff said he was a criminal conspirator and had him hanged with a few other men. They said whatever he did earlier led to the Pavelock Massacre a few days ago, even though they'd hung him by then. They made him the scapegoat just because they could stop a few prisoners from murdering a couple prison guards. That's why I hate them. My da, he was a good man. He cared about people. But the city guards, they're all corrupt. A good man can't survive among dishonest ladder climbers. They'll take out anyone at the knees just to get ahead."

Megan sighed and knelt in front of the boy. "I understand you're angry. I don't blame you. But your father wouldn't want you to be a thief like me. I'm no good. I've done a lot of harm, and so has Raife. What would your mother say if she knew?"

"She wanted me to find you," Otto said, and Megan's eyebrows shot up.

"She what?"

"She wanted me to find you. She said it was because my da helped you and that other guy that he was blacklisted and killed, but she wasn't angry at you. She said you were kind people, even if you didn't live by good rules and morals, and _even_ if you took our candlesticks-"

"That was Raife."

"That's what I said," the boy answered. "My mother knew I would hate it here, but she said there was something about you that was special. You didn't seem like everyone else in this city who is totally corrupted, even though you do bad things. She said somehow you looked honest, and she said if I ever got a chance to find you and Raife, that I should stick with you both, because somehow, even if I got into things that weren't so good, I'd learn to be an honest thief. I could take out our family's anger on the crooked city guards, but I wouldn't become crooked like them. She didn't want me to join them and help them. She hates them, too." The boy frowned and for a moment he looked almost on the verge of crying, but like all little boys who want to be seen as older and more confident, he pushed the emotion down quickly. When he met Megan's eyes, he was determined. "The only thing she asked of me is to always help someone when they need it. Sometimes that means breaking some rules. So…" he paused. "Can I come with you? Please?"

The two girls exchanged glances, and Megan sighed. "All right. But you're going to have to learn how to listen to me, or Daphne, or Raife. You can't be going off and doing your own thing, it'll get you into trouble, and I can't promise we'll be able to get you out of it. Can you promise me that?"

The boy nodded. "Absolutely."

"All right, then." Megan stood up and snatched up two of the loaves of bread and began wrapping them up in the woven throw at the end of Artemus' bed. "Let's toss all this stuff in here, except the slow-fall potions. We can eat once we're out of here. Besides, Basso's probably hungry, too. We'll go find them, move to a safer location, and then we'll make our plans from there. Sound good?"

"You got it," Otto said, heaping the rest of the food into the center of the throw.

"Sounds like a plan for making plans," Daphne said, grinning. "What's the next step?"

Otto grabbed the three slow fall potions and gave one to each of the girls. Then he ran over to the side of the bed, by the largest stained glass window, picked up the small bedside table, and threw it—with amazing strength for a kid—through the window. The glass shattered outward, and the bedside table crashed on the cobblestone street some four stories below.

"Come on!" he said as he stepped up onto the sill and downed his slow-fall potion in a single series of gulps. Without waiting for a reply, he threw himself out into the night air.

Megan and Daphne ran to the window after him, and both were relieved to see the boy floating gently to the ground.

"Well, there's no point in stalling," Daphne said. "You got the food?"

"It's all in here," Megan said as she slung the makeshift sack over her shoulder.

Daphne leaned out the window, eyeing the ground as Otto landed softly. "The last time I tried this, I almost killed Raife and messed up my ankle," she said.

"Yeah, but that was then. This is now. Come on, don't stall, let's go!" Megan swallowed her potion and took a running start, jumping through the open window over the street.

Daphne eyed her potion suspiciously for a moment, but then with a sigh and a "Here goes nothing," she downed the liquid and gingerly stepped out the window with her eyes clamped closed.


	14. In Which Plans Are Laid

**Chapter Fourteen**

_Perhaps there are some things we Keepers were never intended to understand. Have we become so arrogant, so self-assured, that we have forgotten that there are places beyond our library walls which do not abide by the rules we believe to be self-evident? _

_But to admit that we do not understand everything—that in fact we are ignorant of a great many patterns of fate—would that not be the end of us, the Keepers? To introduce self-doubt, because of two young girls who we cannot seem to comprehend within our grasp of the universe…would that not unravel us? _

_Perhaps it is not that we are woven tightly, perfectly, but that we bear knots within our weave to hide our errors. Perhaps the knots need to come undone._

_--Keeper Artemus_

_Journal Entry_

The smoggy dome of the sky over the city blushed a deep rose and cast a warm glaze over the cool, wet streets. In a shadowed patch of cobblestone road in Old Quarter, a sewer cover creaked open and three figures emerged. The one in front carried a bulky sack over her shoulder, while the other two hurried behind her. The streets were still quiet with sleep, and their shuffling footsteps were not noticed.

The two girls and the lad slipped into the musty shadows of an abandoned building a little ways down the street, and climbed the familiar stairs. Megan's hand ran along the banister where some nights ago—however long it was—another cold, slender hand had rested briefly.

"Home again, home again," Daphne whispered, close behind. "I hope Basso and Sherry are-"

The two stepped through the door at the end of the hallway, and the room exploded in motion. A flash of knives, gritting teeth, a gasp, and a heavy crash—both Megan and Daphne found themselves tackled to the floor with blades at their throats. Basso's dark face hovered over Daphne, while Sherry's knee pressed into Megan's stomach. Otto stood at the door, his own knife in hand as his surly eyes darted from the lock pick to the barmaid.

"Oh, it's you!" Basso said, his grimace disappearing. He rose quickly and gave Daphne a hand up. "Sorry about that. We were hoping you would come back here, but we thought the Keepers might as well."

"They're bound to, now," Megan grunted. Sherry's sneer had melted—slightly—but she was slow to take her knee off Megan's abdomen. When at last the barmaid stood up and brush her hair back over her shoulders with a bored sigh, her captive got to her own feet with a brief, darting glare in her direction.

"Otto, it's all right," Daphne said when she caught the flicker of his blade twirling, ready, in his hands. "These are our friends." She introduced Basso and Sherry by name, quickly, but the boy's eyes stayed suspicious as he drifted over to Megan's side.

"Some friends," he muttered. "Do all thieves greet each other this way?"

The barmaid scoffed. "_I'm_ no thief."

Megan smirked, but refrained from replying. Instead, she spoke to the group. "We need to get out of here immediately. The Keepers will come after us again, and this time, I'd like us to be safely away."

Sherry looked to Daphne. "What do _you_ think we should do?" she asked.

Daphne lifted an eyebrow. "What do you mean, what should we do? Megan just said we should get out of here, and that sounds about right to me. We knocked out two Keepers, stole an important document, and broke some Keeper property, so I have no doubts they'll be coming back around here sooner rather than later."

The barmaid nodded her agreement and then led the way toward the door. "You heard what Daphne said, let's go. We can talk about details later."

Megan and Daphne exchanged glances, and proceeded to follow Sherry out. Basso took up the rear, until Otto insisted on taking that position himself. The tenacity of the kid made the lock pick fight back a grin and acquiesce.

The group picked their way through side streets and back alleys, making sure to avoid as many of the emerging people as possible. Little shops were opening their doors, and early customers strolled down the streets, hoping to beat the hot, afternoon crowds. Pick pockets and street scamps scuttled about, searching the nooks and crannies of the cobblestones for dropped coins or other valuables, while their sharp beady eyes located potential targets. The crowdless street was not ideal for pickpocket work, but the little professionals were not idle during the morning hours, just sneakier.

It was only the barmaid's searing glare and Otto's twirling knife that kept the street scamps back at a safe distance from the group, uncertain of what to expect from the motley crew.

Sherry led the group to a dive called Pagan's Pervy Pleasure down by the docks, and by the time they sat down, each and every member of the group still had all his or her pocket change. Sherry flagged down a hard, burly serving wench and ordered a round of whatever the cheapest thing on the menu might be, and the group hunkered down in the booth.

Basso started to ask a question, but he stopped before getting more than the first half of a word out and clamped his teeth shut around it. Instead, he asked, "What happened at the Compound?"

"Jenivere is fine," Megan said quietly, "as far as we know. The Keepers moved her somewhere else for birthing." She reached into the sack of goods she had crammed between herself and Otto, and pulled out the Keeper's journal. "We only had time to find out where the Eye is located, but I'll bet Artemus wrote down where they moved Jenivere, too." She passed the book to Basso, who fervently bent over the pages, searching for his wife's name.

Sherry grasped Daphne's arm. "They hurt you, didn't they?"

"A little," Daphne replied. "But we got through it. What's important now is getting that idiot Raife out of trouble again."

Sherry sat back hard and crossed her arms. "Again? What kind of trouble has he gotten himself into this time?"

"Pagan trouble," Megan said, leaning forward. As she explained the details of what they knew—the Pagan's offer to Garrett, the Eye, and the dead Keeper—Basso, Otto, and Sherry (though she refused to look at Megan as she spoke) listened intently.

When she finished, Basso shook his head and let out a low whistle. "That's bad news for him, I'm afraid," the lock pick said. "Keeper Enforcers are not like normal assassins. Remember, Garrett himself was destined to be one of them way back when, and had he become one, he would have been far more dangerous than he is even now."

Daphne cast Megan a glare at the mention of the Master Thief's name, and Megan flushed. "Don't give me that," she growled. "We don't need him or his help."

"What's this?" Basso asked.

Daphne rolled her eyes. "Megan decided to go on an anger rampage while we were locked up with the Keepers. Garrett was there, and she decided to pull out some choice words she knew would drive him into a rage. I'm pretty sure, considering the bruise, he probably isn't interested in giving us any help."

The lock pick squinted at Megan's face, but even in the dim light of the pub, the developing bruise was obvious. "Did he do that to you?" he whispered, eyebrows raised.

Megan kneaded her hands in her lap and looked down, ashamed. In the pocket of her shirt, she could feel the stiff crinkle of paper. Her face burned under both the lock pick's concerned gaze, and Sherry's almost gleeful glare. Otto, beside her, bristled. "I deserved it," she muttered. "I shouldn't have said anything, but I let my temper get away from me. It's just that- He said he would have let you hang at Pavelock! And he called you incompetent! I couldn't let him be that cruel without someone saying something about it!"

Basso sighed and leaned back. "He wouldn't have let me hang," he said, and his voice carried such a quiet vote of confidence that Megan's face flushed again and she turned her glare on him.

"I heard what he said," she snapped. "Are you saying I'm a liar?"

"No, I'm not," the lock pick replied gently. "It's just that… Garrett is a hard person to read. Especially around Keepers. His loyalties and opinions are not out in the open for everyone to see. He guards them like he guards his life. It may have seemed to you, because you don't know him, that he was being cold and cruel, but I've known Garrett since we were kids. He would never have let me hang, if he had known."

Megan shook her head. "I _do_ know him. I probably know him better than you do, and when I looked up at him and saw the look in his eyes when he practically said you should have died-!" She glared down at her hands.

The lock pick sighed again and looked away as the cheapest thing on the menu— the Trickster's Tit, a mean, brackish drink with steam rising from the lip of the cups —arrived at the table.

After some minutes of uncomfortable silence, besides a few hollow gags following sips of the drink, Basso frowned and leaned forward. "So what's the plan?"

"We discussed this on the way over," Daphne said. "Megan and I are going after Raife. He's apparently out on Northermeed Island, which is where the Eye is being kept. Sherry, we need you to find Gus. We can't leave him out on the streets, someone might find him, and who knows what will happen then."

The barmaid let out a squawk of indignation. "You're _ditching_ me?" she said, her face turning red. "After all I've _done_ for you, you're sending me on a happy little errand to fetch that crazy machine? Why not send the squirt?" She lifted her chin at Otto.

"Gus knows _you_, and he'll listen to you."

"How do you know?" the barmaid muttered, unconvinced.

"We need you to do this, Sherry," Megan said as calmly as she could, but she couldn't quite keep the chill of irritation out of her voice. "When we've got Hammers, Pagans, Keepers, and Enforcers out to get us, having a giant cannon on wheels will be very, very handy."

"Fine." Sherry crossed her arms and glared back. "But I'm doing this for Daphne, not doing for you."

Megan rolled her eyes and leaned back, dropping the potential fight.

Otto leaned forward eagerly. "What about me?"

"I've been thinking about it," Megan said, "and I know we agreed earlier to let you come to Northermeed with us, but I just don't think it's a good idea. We'll be doing everything we can to watch our own backs; we can't promise we'll be able to keep you safe. It would be best if you go with Basso."

"Wait, where am I going?" The lock pick frowned. "I assumed I would join the two of you in stopping Raife from killing himself."

Megan shook her head. "No, you need to be with Jenivere. I didn't break you out of jail just to be killed by Hammers. I promised I would get you back to her, and I plan to be true to my word."

The lock pick at first scowled, but then sighed and ran his hands over his face. "Are you sure you won't need the backup? Hammers are a hard lot, and there are likely to be some situations where you'll need an extra knife hand."

An old memory of enormous swinging mallets and armored guards rushing toward her, the instinctual fear in the pit of her stomach as she stared down what she knew would send her back to the last place she saved in the game—Megan shook her head. "I'm sure we'll be all right. We've handled Hammers before."

"And been killed by them," Daphne whispered softly with a wry smirk. Only Megan heard, and she fought back the urge to chuckle nervously herself.

"I want to go with you," Otto said, scowling. "_I_ could be that extra knife hand you need! I could make glyphs for you! Think about that!"

"And you could be a corpse we'd have to lug home to your mother, too," Megan snapped. "You said when we left the Compound that you were going to listen to me when I ordered you to do something. Are you going to keep your word on that, or are we going to have to bring you back to the Keepers?"

The kid squinted at her and smirked. "You can't do that. The Keepers will catch you again, too, if you went back there."

"I don't care. Either you listen to me now, or I tell Basso to knock you out cold and carry you out of here like a _baby_. Do you want that?"

"You know, Meg," Daphne said, plucking at Megan's sleeve, "I'll bet having some glyphs on our side would be really handy."

Megan frowned, trying not to show her reflexive agreement. Having even a few simple glyphs to use for getting in and getting out undetected, locking and unlocking doors, passing through walls, even silencing a particular thief who would probably not be thrilled about being told what not to do…

With a sigh, she nodded her head. "All right, Otto. You can come with us."

The boy grinned wide. "This is going to be _awesome._"

"It's not a game, all right?" Megan sharpened her voice again. "We could all die there. I don't want any off-the-wall heroics, and by that I mean anything you think your mother would disapprove of, got it?"

Otto scowled again. "Are you going to be like this the whole time?"

"Yes."

"Fine," he sighed and crossed his arms.

"Well, I think we've got everything settled then," Megan said.

She stood up, as did Daphne, and the group begrudgingly followed suit. As they bumped into each other and finally got out of the tight booth, Megan saw Basso slip a folded sheet of paper into his shirt. Her hand went to her own hidden sheet, and found it missing.

The lock pick smiled when she caught his eye and he stepped up close beside her to murmur, "Just in case I run into the Master Thief. You don't give him enough credit."

"We'll just see about that," she grumbled back.

The group stepped out into the sunlight and slipped around behind the dive to the alley behind it. Here, they said their goodbyes.

Megan hugged Basso tightly. "Thank you so much," she said. "You've been so kind to me and Daphne and everyone. Take care of yourself, all right?"

The lock pick laughed and patted her on the back. "Fair enough," he replied. "And be gentle on Raife when you meet up with him. Your opinion means more to him than you think it does."

Megan's cheeks burned, and the lock pick's eyes twinkled with good humor. "Watch your back when you're with the Hammers," he added. "They won't pull their punches for a girl."

With a chuckle, Megan rubbed her bruising cheek. "It won't be the first time."

"If you get yourself killed, I'll never forgive you," Sherry said, releasing Daphne from her hard embrace. "I mean it. I'll find your grave and dance on it, got that?"

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Daphne replied, but her tone was warm. "Say hi to Gus for me, and let him know I'll be back for him soon."

The barmaid nodded. "How will we meet up again?"

"Two nights from now, if we've made it out of Northermeed alive, we'll meet you right back here." Daphne pursed her lips. "Right here."

"All right," Sherry said, and then with only a quick glance over her shoulder, she stepped out into the street and disappeared into the crowd.

"I guess that's my cue, as well," Basso said. "Take care of yourselves, all right? Don't rush anything. Think it through. You're both smart girls, and you'll need every ounce of wit you've got to get through that place. I'll do whatever I can to help…from a distance," he added when he saw Megan start to frown.

With a last glance at both girls, he tipped an invisible hat to them and, with a wave, stepped out among the crowd and disappeared as well.

Otto, Megan and Daphne exchanged looks. "Well," Megan said. "I guess we better find a boat going out to Northermeed."

Daphne smirked. "Raife better appreciate all the trouble we're going through for him."

"From what I know of him," Otto said, "I doubt it."

"So do I, kid," Megan replied, turning him toward the street. "But it doesn't matter if he does or not. Let's find that boat."

* * *

All night, after slipping into the cathedral, Raife had searched high and low for an entrance to the secret passages and found nothing. Apparently, every last drop of luck he had at his disposal had been used in escaping almost certain death in the tide-filled caves. He had ended up in the grand sanctuary, where the dissolving pagan map bore a symbol looking like the Eye, but again—he found nothing. Frustrated and exhausted by all the dead ends, he soothed his ego slightly by swiping the pair of golden candlesticks from the pulpit. The pale peach light of dawn, flooding past the looming form of a giant hammer, cast a menacing shadow across the center of the room and made the stonework along the sides blush. The thief was in no mood to linger the majestic glow of the sanctuary, but the sound of voices fast approaching sent him into the shadow of the monolithic hammer. He crouched there, relatively calm, and waited impatiently for the voices to move on.

They did not.

In fact, as they grew closer, he heard others approaching behind them, heard mallets laid gently beneath the pews, heard armor shift as seats were taken, heard the murmured conversation swell as more Hammerites joined their brothers. He peeked out, warily, and saw what he dreaded: they were preparing for a service.

"Great," he muttered, unafraid of being overheard. The mass of voices drowned out his voice even to his own ears. "Fought my way into this place for a sermon."

He slumped down and prepared himself for a long wait, leaning his head back on the base of the hammer. He turned the two candlesticks over in his hands, and for the first time wondered what the Hammers would do when they noticed them missing. Again, he peeked around the corner at the filling sanctuary. Forty, maybe sixty armed Hammerites. A handful of novices and priests. He slouched back behind the statue, feeling small and easy to crush to death.

It was an eternity until at last the voices died down and he could hear footsteps approaching his hiding place. The footfall, softened by whispering robes, turned just before he thought they would surely lead right to him, and he heard the whole assembly rise to their feet.

"Mine Brethren," a sturdy, biting voice called over the heads of the worshippers. "Let us use the tools of song our Builder hath bestowed upon us, that we may praise Him."

Raife rolled his eyes as the voices of the assembly grew in strength and finally belted out some age old hymn he only recognized because nearly all the Builder hymns sounded the same. Praises for punishment; hefting, hewing, charring, maiming; thanks to the Builder; the hammer is great—on and on. The thief in hiding scoffed and regretted his temporary entrapment. It was bad enough to be stuck in one place when there was still so much to do; it was torture to listen to this overly-devoted parroting.

_The day the Builder builds me a fortune is the day I'll think about thanking him for anything, but until that happens, he better just be glad I don't gut this whole place of its unearned riches._

When at last the endless song droned to a close and the assembly resumed their seats, the High Priest opened one of their dry, dusty tomes and recited an age's worth of verses. More of the same: smelting, sanding, grinding, shaping, Praise to the Builder! It was only the thump of the tome closing and the next words the High Priest said that kept the thief from dozing off.

"Mine Brethren," the High Priest declared, and the thief visualized him spreading his arms wide in front of all those eager Hammerite faces, "I am certain several of thee noticed the bypassing of the ceremonial candle lighting at the beginning of this dawn service." There were several murmurs of acknowledgement from the crowd. Raife bristled and his stomach tightened. "Our candlesticks hath been misplaced, but do not concern thyselves. Brother Mendel shalt locate the novice who was in charge of their upkeep. But I cometh to an important subject, which hath often been overlooked by our Brethren here and upon distant shores. We, the apprentices of the Builder, the wood to be sculpted in his hands, the iron to be smelted—all too often, we forget ourselves in the glitter of this life, in the materials of wealth, and forsaketh our sturdy wood and metal roots."

The thief sighed—quietly now, for there was no sound to cover him—and settled in for the sermon, which turned out to be on the evils of gold and gems. _Like they chose it just for me,_ he thought with a wry smile.

"Brethren, guild thine hearts not with gold from the Earth, for it is worthless. Any man in this life can decorate himself with this; no hand need craft it with more than gentle taps. It is malleable in any hand, relenting to any order. It giveth itself up to any twist and bend. Be not like contorting gold, for within it lies no strength!"

_No strength but power, you old fool._

"Do not give thyselves up like the gems of the Earth, masquerading as things of beauty. What soul hath these? What depth of craftsmanship doeth it require to bringeth out the elegance of these things? None. Jewel-smiths exist in every city, in every nation. What about their craft maketh them content? The wealth selling their cheap creations brings them?"

_That would make me content._

"Brethren, I discuss this not to make thee hate these things. They are of the Earth, and they shalt be used for the Builder's glory. But mould not thy soul from them. Mould thy soul from the nobler, simpler materials. Wood." There was a sigh of agreement. "Iron." Another sigh, accompanied undoubtedly by smiles. "Stone." The assembly shifted with joy at the words, and the thief crossed his arms, bored. "These art the materials that shalt strengthen thy soul! These are the materials that shalt draw out of thee the skills and talents thou needest to survive in this gold-gilded world! Silver and gold, gems and jewels—our treasury doth overflow. We hath seen an abundance of donation, and it is a Blessing. Let us use these riches to furnish our poorer Brethren with Wood. With Iron. And with Stone."

The assembly erupted, and a new hymn began in strength. The thief lay back against the monolithic hammer and imagined what the overflowing treasuries must look like. The tips of his gloved fingers tingled at the thought of all that wealth within his grasp.

The chorus ended, and the thief came back to his senses at the grating sound of mallets being hefted from the stone floor as the assembly broke up to go about their daily business. Just beyond his hiding place, he could hear the High Priest speaking with one of the Hammerites, and decided to listen in.

"I condone thy enthusiasm, Brother Torus. I shalt speak with the priests, but I have no doubts they shalt agree with thy suggestion. I hath been in close contact with Brother Nathem from St. Koren, and he hast often mentioned their desire to replace those beams. In examining the sketches of the building, I hath estimated the cost of replacing the wooden beams at about seven thousand gold pieces. Here-" The thief heard the hiss of robes at the High Priest removed something from his person. "-taketh this key. It shalt unlock the vault in my quarters where the key to the treasuries is located. It is the silver key on the shelf beside my personal seal. That key shalt admit thee to the treasuries where Brother Thompson will collect the funds for thee."

The Hammerite—Torus—thanked the High Priest earnestly and the thief listened to him walk off to the left, as the priest removed himself from the sanctuary via the central aisle. When at last the sanctuary was quiet again, Raife rose to his feet.

"Well," he said softly, "It seems my luck might just be turning around." The old priest likely had information about the location of the Eye somewhere, and if nothing else, he was bound to gain access to the treasuries, which would do a great deal to soften his mood about this mission. The thief smiled and rubbed his hands together. Then, quietly as a shadow himself, he slipped out of the sanctuary, and headed after the unsuspecting Brother Torus.


	15. In Which Sherry Begins an Adventure

"Oy! You there, lad! Yes, you!" The sailor hurried up to the scrawny boy and tipped his cap to the two young ladies with him. "Afternoon, Misses," he said, shying off a little as he laid his hand on the boy's shoulder. He had hoped the boy was alone, but when the two girls stopped abruptly, he knew he had chosen poorly. Women always made things more difficult with their weeping and handkerchief waving.

"Can we help you?" the lad asked in a cool, measured voice. He was educated, then. The sailor looked down at the boy's robes and sailor cursed silently to himself. When had he lost his eye for recruiting? It should have been obvious this was a dead end, ladies or no ladies.

The sailor scratched the back of his neck, searching for a way to slip away with his pride intact, but under the eyes of the two girls—two strange girls, he thought now—he couldn't summon up a convincing lie. Instead, he decided to push onward, despite the improbability of success. "How would you like to sail the salty seas down to the Cartovian Islands, lad? Join up with Captain Fallhorn, and I can personally guarantee you'll make yourself a small wealth of cash in the spice trade!"

The lad shared an unreadable look with the two girls, and the sailor quickly added, "Wouldn't it be nice to have the means to buy pretty things for your beautiful sisters? Silks or jewelry, perhaps?"

One of the girls whispered to the other and then looked away, though the sailor thought he caught her smiling before she did. The other stood firm and immobile, arms crossed, eyes chilling; she was the obstacle between him and a cabin boy for the Captain. Quite a piece of work, if he did think so himself. Couldn't imagine who would want to contend with that cold glare, passably pretty or not.

"The Cartovian Islands, you said?" the lad asked, suddenly far more friendly. He had not taken his eyes off the sailor for a moment, and now he leaned forward eagerly, as if in confidence. "How's the weather in those parts, currently?"

"Oh, beautiful, lad! Beautiful! It'd make you crazy to know how beautiful it is down there, compared to this filth-hole we call a city. Think of it, lad! With the money you'd earn, you could move your lovely sisters out to some quiet, clean place in the country! Perhaps by the sea, even? A nice little cottage with a flower garden, perhaps?"

He stole a furtive glance at the cold sister, but his inviting suggestions had not softened her expression in the slightest. The lad crossed his arms and nodded thoughtfully, looking back at the cold sister. "Yes, that would be nice, wouldn't it, Sissy dear? A little cottage where you could knit on the porch?"

"I'm not an old maid, you-" she paused in her sharp whisper, and glanced at the sailor. When she spoke again to the lad, her voice had softened. Slightly. "No, I think this place does quite well enough for the likes of me. What with dear older brother waiting for us-" Something about the way the girl's eyes glittered at that made the sailor think she might mean something more than she said. What it was, he certainly couldn't tell. "-Shouldn't we get going?"

The sailor thought he would have to return to Captain Fallhorn empty-handed, yet again, which would be greatly unappreciated, when the lad shook his head and grinned. "No, I think I'll join up!" he said, and turning to the sailor, he said eagerly, "Will I really be able to get money? Lots of money?"

"Absolutely lad!" the sailor cried. "You'll be your own man, and the money we make will be fairly doled out after our transactions."

"That's great!" the lad cried, turning to his sisters. "Isn't this wonderful? With the money I'll earn, we'll finally be able to afford a dowry for the both of you!"

"Don't do me any favors," the cold sister grumbled.

"Yeah, I think I'm all set," the other sister replied. The sailor noted that her smile was gone. Over the lad's head, she asked him, "Excuse us for a moment, will you?"

The cold sister caught the lad by the ear, which made him bite back a yelp, and the two sisters hauled him over to a side alley, out of traffic's way. The sailor slouched and put his hands in his pockets, waiting. Surely, the sisters would disallow the boy to register. He was wasting his time.

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Megan hissed when they were far enough away from the crusty old sailor. "Have you lost your mind?"

"We're going after Raife, not trying to make money," Daphne added firmly. "And that ship isn't going anywhere near Northermeed Island, is it?"

Otto swatted Megan's hand away from his ear and scowled. "Not this one, no. But we're not going to go on this one. Look, when someone signs on to join a ship's crew, they have to go to the shipping offices on the docks. They have a register book there of every ship coming in and out of the harbor, their destinations, and their cargo. They don't show it to anybody, except when someone has to sign their name to the crew registry. If I say I'll sign on, we'll be able to get a good look at all the shipping traffic in the area. One of them has to be heading past Northermeed!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong here," Daphne said, "but I'm assuming we're still in an age before women were allowed to sail on ships, right?"

The boy scoffed. "Women on ships! That's rich. We're not going to join the _crew_, you idiot, we're going to stow away in the cargo hold!"

"Don't call her an idiot," Megan snapped.

"It's a good plan, though, isn't it?"

Reluctantly, Megan admitted that it was. There didn't seem to be many options for obtaining free passage to Northermeed, and this was as good an idea as they'd had all morning. "All right," she said. "We're following your lead, here."

Otto puffed out his chest with pride and frowned solemnly before giving her a mocking salute. "I won't let you down."

The two girls rolled their eyes and followed him back out into the busy street.

The sailor straightened as the lad returned, his two sisters looking chastised and in tow, at last behaving like proper women. "Well, lad?" he asked. "Do we have a deal?"

"Oh, boy, have we ever!" the lad cried. "Sign me up! Where do I go? What do I need to do?"

_No more fourth watch for me!_ The sailor thought with a grin as he pointed down to the building at the end of the docks. "Right there, lad. See that building there? That be the Shipping Office. Go right on in and tell them you're the new cabin boy for the _Eyes-O'-Pearl_, under the honorable Captain Fallhorn. They'll get you squared away. We set sail tonight with the tide, so spend the day with your sweet sisters but don't be late! We sail without you, if you don't make it on time, got that?"

"Aye, aye, sir!" the lad cried, saluting him. The sailor laughed and slapped the boy on the back.

"Attaboy! You're a sailor already! Now remember, register at the offices and be back to the _Eyes-O'-Pearl_ by night tide. The fellows at the office will tell you where to go to catch the skiff out to 'er. You're in for a real treat, lad, a real treat!"

Megan watched as the man scurried away into the crowd. "I hope you know what you're doing," she said as Otto started leading the way to the offices. "We've got enough troubles without a bunch of sailors coming after us for a broken deal."

"You worry too much," Otto said, grinning over his shoulder. Something about his flippant, overconfident tone made her skin crackle. "I'm not going to sign my _real_ name to the roster! Besides, once we find a ship heading out to Northermeed, we won't even be in the area. Chances are, we'll be leaving tonight on the night tide. They won't have time to investigate."

He moved ahead and Megan dropped back to walk beside Daphne. "He's already starting to act like a thief," she muttered. "Did you notice the chip he's suddenly got on his shoulder?"

Daphne chuckled. "He sort of had that before, you know. You can't blame Raife for this one. He hasn't exactly been around to influence the kid."

Megan scowled. "He doesn't _have_ to be around! His ego is big enough to pollute an entire city, even from Northermeed!"

The other laughed, and Otto glanced behind him from some distance ahead in the crowd. He waved them on, and they hurried to catch up, still chuckling quietly to themselves.

* * *

As she wove through the sweltering, overcrowded streets, Sherry Calivander—for that was her last name, though no one ever bothered to ask—grew more and more certain that finding Gus was just a malicious little plot to keep her away from all the excitement, spearheaded by that little brat Megan. Who did she think she was, anyway, giving everyone orders like she owned the place? Sherry grinned at the thought of the purplish-blue welt on the girl's cheek where the Master Thief had punched her. At least someone in the city wasn't all googley-eyed over her. What was so special about her anyway? Even that rock-headed idiot Raife seemed to hang on her.

_Well, not anymore, I guess_, she thought. _He finally took _my_ advice and ran away like the coward he is! _

She rounded the corner and slipped into the shadowed alley where she and Daphne—and, unpleasantly, Raife—had hidden the giant Karras robot, and stopped abruptly. The canvas under which the robot had been hidden, tucked away behind a pile of old junk, lay discarded on the ground. Gus was gone.

"Great," Sherry muttered, glowering at the cloth as she picked it up. "Stupid robot couldn't even stay in one-" Her voice trailed off as her eyes settled on a large metal hammer beneath the canvas and the rust-smattered gray stones beside it. She tossed the cloth aside and bent down to brush the spot with her fingers. It was dry, but she knew a pool of blood when she saw it. _Hammers._

A chill tingled up her arm from the stain as she slowly rose to her feet and glanced around the alley to see if anyone was watching. Thankfully, the overcrowded streets did provide some shelter from detection. Everyone was too busy trying to keep their pockets from getting picked to pay any attention to the lone girl in the alley, standing beside an old bloodstain and a Hammerite's mallet.

Now that she looked up, she began to see signs of a struggle. There were other blood stains on the cobblestones in the alley, other mallets dropped by the injured or dying. Several large craters had been blasted into the surrounding walls. But most chilling of all was the trail of little cogs and springs and screws leading out of the alley. Sherry hugged her shoulders and glanced back the way she'd come, away from the line of broken machinery as unnerving to her as a trail of blood.

What should she do? Daphne would be distraught if she thought something bad had happened to Gus, and something bad had assuredly happened. She couldn't go back to the meeting place yet, anyway, and the thought of showing up empty-handed made the barmaid sick to her stomach.

_I have two days until they come back,_ she thought, bending down to pick up a small golden cog. She twisted it between her fingers and sighed. "Well, I guess this isn't going to be so dull after all."

Slipping the cog into her skirt pocket, Sherry hurried down the alley, following the trail.

Unlike blood, which dries and remains fixed in place, following a trail of screws and cogs proved far more challenging. The distracted feet of every person on the street had as effectively erased the trail as a fox wading through a stream when the hunter's dogs were after him. The barmaid had managed to weave her way down two streets before the trail vanished completely, and she was left standing with no direction, and in a much fouler mood than she had been in for the whole of this insane adventure.

She leaned against the wall of a side alley, glaring at the passerbys while her furious mind defeated every cool, logical attempt to determine where she should go next.

_That stupid girl would know what to do,_ Sherry grumbled in her mind, squinting extra hard at a wealthy lordling riding through the street in a horse-drawn carriage. _She'd come up with something clever, something I wouldn't have thought of. And then everyone would be _so_ impressed, and they'd all pat her on the back and say, 'Wow, Megan! That's a great idea! Why didn't I think of that?' and Daphne would clutch her arm and cry, 'You're so smart, Megan! You're so awesome! You're the most awesome person in the whole _damn_ world!'_ The barmaid felt her skin burn at the thought. _No. I'm not going to let this defeat me. I'm going to find that stupid robot, and I'm going to bring him back, safe and sound to Daphne, and then _I'll_ be the one with all the amazing stories, and _I'll_ be the smartest one, and everyone will love _me_ and congratulate _me_ for my witty and heroic efforts. _That appeased her temper just enough for her to clear her head and think.

"If I were a Hammerite," she whispered to herself, "and I had found an old Karras robot patrolling the streets, where would I take it?" There were several cathedrals in the general vicinity, but there was only one big enough to hide a giant robot in without every Hammerite and his brother knowing about it. Gormalt Cathedral. The very same cathedral she and Daphne and Raife almost landed in after the run-in with the Hammerite guards. It seemed so long ago, now, but even so, the thought of willingly going to the place made Sherry's heart start hammering in her chest.

_I can do this,_ she thought, forcing herself to move before the moment of insanity passed. _I'm not a coward. This is my mission, and I will succeed in at least finding out where they have Gus and whether or not he's okay._

The crowds of early afternoon were beginning to thin as people moved into the shadowy doorways of the local pubs for vittles and a cooling ale, relief from the heat in the streets. It made travel easier without having to weave through the endless, unrelenting stream of bodies, but it also made Sherry feel exposed. She made an effort to slip into side streets and take a curving, difficult route in the hopes of shaking any invisible trailer she might have picked up over the course of her travels through the city. Every so often, she would slip into a shadowed overhang and wait, watching the street for anyone following her. Whether it was simply the nervousness of what she was about to do, or a legitimate intuition, she couldn't shake the feeling that she was being followed by someone. But every time she checked, she found nothing to substantiate the itching feeling at the nape of her neck that always made her glance back.

It was late afternoon by the time she arrived at the street across from the cathedral. The shadows hung long and heavy from the sinking sun, but the musty heat remained even in the darkest corners. Sherry sat crouched behind an abandoned shop stall, hidden from the street but able to watch the front doors of the cathedral. She had watched two lines of armed Hammerites leave the building by those doors just a few minutes before, and she had a growing feeling that if she were going to make a go for it, it would be best to slip inside while a large portion of the guards were absent.

Along the way, she had bought an invisibility potion, and she held the glass globe flask in her sweaty palm as though it were her last tie to life itself. She wished fervently that she'd taken the time to pilfer some pockets when the streets had been crowded so she could have bought a second potion to use on the way out. But it did no good dwelling on things like that now. She had to act, and fast. She could feel her nerve slipping away with every inch of lengthening shadow. With the guards gone, she might be able to slip into the cathedral unnoticed and save the potion for use in an emergency, but she'd have to go now.

With a deep breath that didn't seem to quite fill her lungs, Sherry peered over the stall at the street, looking for witnesses. There was no one. Rising cautiously to her feet, she slipped out of her hiding place and moved to the corner, trying to look as unsuspicious as possible. A golden, glinting object caught her eye in the sun-soaked courtyard between herself and the front doors of the cathedral: a screw. That she had in fact found the right place, that her instincts had been correct, gave the barmaid a slight boost in confidence, enough to get her feet moving. She glanced around the corner and saw that the way was clear. With a burst of energy, she bolted across the open space to the shadowed cleft beside the front doors of the cathedral.

The blood thundered in her ears as she stood pressed into a slender alcove beside the doors. She didn't dare breathe or move. It had been a miracle to get this far without detection; she didn't want to ruin it by a foolish misstep now. In her hand, the neck of the flask was slippery. She clutched it closer, fearing that even the slightest gesture might make it slip from her hands and spill its expensive green fluid across the ground.

_Now what?_

The pounding in her ears slowly subsided, and the warmth of the shadowed hiding place lulled her nerves. This wasn't turning out so bad after all. There was no sound at all from the courtyard save the happy gurgling from a small fountain in the corner, surrounded by well pruned hedges and orderly flowerbeds. Weeds were an abomination in a Hammerite garden. A fly buzzed along the stone balustrade not more than a few feet in front of her. Its tiny shadow flitted along the ground by her feet. For all she could tell, the interior of the cathedral was just as lazily quiet, but she didn't want to act on an assumption.

Cautiously, Sherry slipped out of her hiding place and into the bright sunlight warming the wood and iron castings of the cathedral doors. She glanced behind her, half expecting to hear a shout and see the two troops of guards rushing toward her, hammers raised, but all was quiet. She reached out and took hold of the enormous iron door handle, warmed like a snake in the sun.

She opened the door as quietly as she could, wincing when the hinges made even the slightest groan, and slipped inside, closing it softly behind her. In the sudden interior gloom, while her eyes adjusted, she brushed along the wall to a small curve in the wall where a statue stood in head-bowed penitence. Behind this, she hid, hoping it was as dark as her sun-drowned eyes told her it was.

All was quiet and cold. The heat of the streets could not penetrate the thick stone walls, and the heavily stained-glass windows seemed to provide a formidable barrier to the brightest of the sunlight. Sherry crouched and waited, eyes closed, until she could see clearly enough in the dark. Her skin prickled from the chill stone as she leaned back against it and she shivered. Somewhere far away she thought she heard a movement, but after waiting for what felt like hours to hear it grow closer or repeat itself, she finally decided that it was nothing to worry about, at least yet.

Rested and readjusted to the surroundings, Sherry held her breath and slipped out of her hiding spot. The thick carpet runner along the hall muffled every step she took along it, and though she was grateful for that, she also feared it would as willingly do the same for any armed Hammerite walking toward her. Every opportunity she got, she ducked into a shadowed spot to wait, to listen, and to plan her steps. She was already further inside the Hammerite cathedral than she had ever been before in her life. The only other time she had ever been even in the foyer of such a place was years ago, back when her mother was alive, when they came in their rags to beg for a few coins. For years after that, she had worn a small hammer around her neck, believing that the Builder would somehow rebuild their lives into something beautiful and amazing. When her mother died, unable to keep both herself and her child alive on the pittance the Hammerites dolled out to her on holy days, Sherry buried her with the talisman.

It was all show. Looking now at the expensive decorations lining the walls, at the gold and silver candlesticks on every table or on stands beside the holy sculptures, at the sheer luxuriousness of the cathedral's design, she knew how hollow their gestures of kindness toward a poor, starving woman and her little child had been. And she recognized the temptation within herself to relieve them of a little of the wealth they refused to share.

_The Master Thief would strip this place from top to bottom,_ she thought. _He wouldn't think twice about it. What use do penitents have for gold and gems, anyway, compared to the people who could use it? I could take just a handful and feed several families on the street for weeks. They probably gave my mother two copper coins while lighting seventy candles on a golden candelabra._

But she was not there to rob. A missing artifact would likely alert the Hammerites to her presence, and she could not risk that before finding Gus. Besides, she prided herself on being a cut above thievery. She didn't need to steal to earn money, even if from time to time she had to resort to less desirable ways of making a living besides serving ale for tips. Even then, she never stole so much as a half-weight silver coin. _That girl is a thief and a liar and a cheat. She acts all holy and pure, but she's just as bad as that idiot Raife. How could I even look at myself in the mirror if I knew I had sunk to her level?_

Forcing her mind back to the task at hand, Sherry was about to slip out of hiding, when she heard the soft padding of someone—perhaps more than one someone—coming down the hall toward her. Now, she heard them speak, quietly, softly to one another.

"Dost thou truly believe the boy is the Builder's Hammer? He is naught but a child!"

"Thou has heard him speak, hast thou not? He doth know every inch of our holy texts, without ever having read them. He speaketh of things only we would know of! He is a vessel of great information. If he doth not come from the Builder's holy sanctuary, where doth he come from?"

The footsteps drew closer over the moment's pause in their discussion. "I do not know, Brother Regulus, but there is something…wrong about him. I do not trust him. He hath too much respect for the heretic Karras' teachings. Hath he not brought one of the heretic's own creations in amongst us? And not just among us, but into the workrooms in the catacombs, where our holy dead layeth in peace?"

"Hush!" the other said, lowering his voice still further. "Brother Smegglen didst warn me that the Hammer might install the heretic's security eyes about the cathedral."

"See?" the other Hammerite did not seem concerned about the volume of his voice. "This is what I fear! That he doth claim Karras is sitting beside the Builder's right hand, that he hath earned the Builder's respect! It is heresy, I tell thee!"

The two Hammerites passed in front of Sherry's hiding place, and she pressed back against the stones, as though she might be able to submerge herself within them for better concealment.

"Thou shouldst not say such things, Brother Artech. The Hammer doth have a violent and passionate rage against those who challenge him."

"He is but a boy! With one swift stroke of mine hammer, I could-"

"Do not say it, or we shalt both feel his wrath! I beg thee, Brother Artech, Anslom, please. The priests doth say that the Hammer is indeed a messenger from the Builder. To challenge the Hammer is to challenge them as well! Thou wouldst do well to remember to guard thy tongue, if not for your own sake, then do so for a friend."

The two Hammerites passed along the corridor toward the end of the hall. The first mumbling something under his breath, which Sherry could not hear, until—just as they turned the corner—he said loudly, "What is this automobile he speaks of, anyway? Sounds like pagan witchcraft to me!"

She heard them laugh and listened as it faded down the hall. Then quietly, she hurried back the way she had come. Unsure of where to go, she had passed several doors, one of which bore a placard labeling the place she now must go, though she loathed the thought of it. She pushed through the door and felt the already chill air drop several degrees, making her shiver as her breath turned to steam. She closed the door behind her and found herself in almost absolute darkness. The stairs descending in front of her were only visible by the weak light of a torch at the bottom. Even her quiet breathing seemed to carry unnervingly well in the cold air, and she heard her own sigh whisper down the stairs like a ghost. She looked down at the flask in her trembling, clammy hands and debated using it. Would ghosts or the walking dead be deceived by an invisibility potion? Not days ago, she would have never thought such things even existed. She would have laughed at the patron who mentioned such hocus-pocus things and would have turned him away as a drunk. But she had seen things in these last few days that she never thought she would ever see in her life. She couldn't deny that the walking dead were real, and dangerous.

Biting her lip, Sherry pushed the idea from her mind. When it was needed.

And it would be needed.

* * *

"Joining the crew of ol' Fallhorn, eh?" the scabby man behind the counter said as he leaned forward, surveying Otto with a mocking, patronizing gleam in his eyes. "Have you ever _seen_ Fallhorn, lad? You'd remember if you had. Bull of a man, patched eye, real mean looking teeth. He'll eat you for breakfast, my laddy boy, that he will. Won't he, Pollux?"

"Aye," the younger, cleaner man replied as he hoisted the giant tome of the shipping records onto the table in front of them. He was dressed more like a clerk than a sailor, and his hair was combed neatly and shone with what was likely some form of hair product. He glanced up briefly at Daphne and seemed to flush a bit around the cheeks, but she couldn't be sure under that swarthy skin of his. His eyes were dark and penetrating. "That he will."

"Would the ladies care for a drink?" the old sailor asked, leaning back in the seat with an open flask he'd pulled from his jacket pocket while his young coworker fetched the quill pen. "This here stuff is downright mystical. Brought it all the way from the Beachseed Isles in the tropics. Natives drink it like its water. Don't know how they keep their heads on right." He scratched his gut with his grimy hand and took a drawn-out swig.

"Thanks, but I'm sure we're all set," Megan said, emphasizing the chill in her voice as Otto peered at the giant book.

The scabby man leaned forward in his seat, across the counter and leered at her. "You're a right tart little trollop, aren't you, lassy?" His voice went low and gruff when he added, "I like that in a woman."

Megan's face went red from her neck to her hair, and Daphne stifled a chuckle as the young man came back with the quill and ink.

"Fat ugly oafs aren't exactly my type," Megan growled back, fists clenched at her side.

"Oh, ho ho!" the crusty sailor laughed, bringing his meaty hand down on the counter so hard Otto jumped and nearly spilled the ink pot. "Like fire, this one! Careful, missy, or you'll make me lose my mind faster than this here drink will!"

The thought that talking back actually made the creep more interested changed Megan's flushed face slightly green, and she crossed her arms defensively across her chest as his greasy eyes rolled up and down her. She looked ready to puke.

"He said it was the _The Moon Keeper_, I think. That sounds almost like what it was." Otto stumbled over the name as his eyes darted down the record, searching for something with a track that would bring them generally close to Northermeed. His stumbling seemed to irritate the young clerk, who glared down at the record.

"It must be the _Eyes-O'-Pearl_," he said curtly. "That's the only ship Captain Fallhorn is sailing currently."

"But that name doesn't sound right," Otto said, whining in just the right tone to make the young clerk almost cross his eyes with frustration.

"Well, if you're sailing under Captain Fallhorn, that's the only ship it could be!"

"Maybe it wasn't Captain Fallhorn," Daphne put in sweetly, peering over Otto's shoulder. The clerk's eyes darted briefly down to her chest, and now Megan was certain he had blushed. "Do you remember if the man said Fallhorn? Perhaps it was Melbourne?"

"That- That could have been what he said," Otto stammered, frowning.

"Do you remember what the man looked like?" the clerk asked. His tone had changed completely, and he tried to turn the book to help them search.

"No, wait. I think I'll know it if I see it." Otto twisted the book back toward him, out of the hands of the clerk. There was a brief moment when Megan was sure the clerk would burst into curses, but with a furtive glance at Daphne, he swallowed whatever obscenities were at the tip of his tongue.

It was clear that their delay was starting to be slightly suspicious, for the older man said, "You ladies must be awfully brave to let your little brother rush of to sea at the first suggestion of it. Much more so because the lad can't even remember the name of the ship!"

"Well, it's what he really wants to do," Daphne said, glancing at Megan for support.

"He's always liked the sea," Megan stated, still avoiding eye contact with the grimy ex-sailor. "Our father was a sailor, you see."

"Was he now?" the old man had eyes only for her, and she fought to keep the revulsion from her face. "Where was his home port?"

"A little south of here," Megan lied.

"Southport, mayhaps?"

"I don't think so."

"What did you say his name was?"

"I didn't." Megan was starting to become flustered by all of his overly-interested questions, and she feared that much more of this quick-fire interrogation would unravel the flimsy lies they had already spun. "Have you figured out which ship it is?" she asked, trying to look over Otto's other shoulder without leaning too close to the scrutinizing old man.

"Yes, I think they're right," Otto said, pointing to the entry for the _Eyes-O'-Pearl_. "I think it was Captain Fallhorn. I'm pretty sure it was. Look, it says it leaves tonight at the tide. Isn't that what the man told me?"

Megan nodded, trying to convincingly play the part of the interested and concerned older sister. "I believe so, but do be sure. Sissy, is that the right ship?" She looked over at Daphne and found her friend making eyes at the young clerk.

"Seamus? That's a cute name," Daphne was saying, flitting her eyelashes and twisting as she stood. She yelped when Megan punched her lightly in the arm, and scowled at her.

"What?" Daphne demanded under her breath. "You've got Raife, why shouldn't I have a little fun, too?"

The fire-engine red of Megan's cheeks flared up again and the mortified look on her face made Daphne shrug and smirk. As Megan's lips searched for the right words, Daphne leaned over Otto's shoulder, looked at where he pointed, and with a nod said, "Yes. That's the one, dear. Where should he sign?"

The clerk jumped to flip to the appropriate roster page, and as he did so, Megan leaned in close to Daphne's ear and rasped, "_I don't know what you're talking about. I was just trying to stop you from looking like a slut!_"

Daphne scoffed and rolled her eyes. "You're just jealous because the cute one likes me, and the creepy one likes you." She said it just loud enough that Megan shot back from her, glaring, and casting an uncomfortable glance at the old man behind the counter. He hadn't apparently heard.

When Otto has scribbled his illegible name across the blank line at the bottom of the roster, he handed the quill back to the clerk. "Is there anything else I need to do?" he asked, sounding completely genuine in his interest.

"Just make the boat on time, lad," the old man said. "Pack up no more than a few little trinkets and socks, got it? There isn't any storage space on the ship for a scamp like you, so keep it small."

"Aye, I understand!" Otto said. "Thanks a lot!"

The old man was too busy returning to his flask to pay any attention as the three turned and headed out of the office, and the young clerk was too distracted by Daphne's leaving to say anything in response.

The moment they stepped out onto the street, Otto gestured to a side alley, to which he made a beeline, as though more than willing to leave them behind. He actually looked slightly angry. When Megan and Daphne finally arrived at his location, he turned on them and growled, "What's _wrong_ with you two? You almost gave us completely away with that nonsense in there! Why couldn't you just sit back and keep your mouths shut?"

Megan flared up immediately and looked about ready to strike him. "You better watch your own mouth, or so help me I'll send you packing right back to your mother! This may be _your_ plan, but it's _our_ mission, and we can still hogtie you and leave you behind. Or better yet-!" she added through clenched teeth, "-we could just hand you over to ol' Captain Fallhorn and let _him_ deal with you! I'm starting to think I'd like to see you sail away to the tropics!"

The boy seemed to actually quail under her verbal assault, for the annoyance on his face fell immediately and he seemed to shrink in on himself. Daphne tried to calm Megan down, to let the kid off the hook, and made the mistake of touching her arm.

"As for you!" Megan nearly shouted, whirling on her. "What hair-brained train of logic makes _any _of what you said in there make any- I mean, _really_! You think that me and- and-" She gestured violently with her hands as though unable to force her mouth to speak the words in her head. "I don't even _like_ him! And I'm tired of hearing people insinuate that- that-"

Daphne had never seen Megan so enraged before, and it did truly frighten her. But likewise, a little flame of her own had sparked up, a little fire that didn't like being talked to in such a tone. Her skin felt tight, and everything looked slightly green. "Relax!" she hissed, barely noticing the soft, multiple layers in her voice. "And cut Otto some slack. This was his plan, and it's going to work! As for what I mentioned, I was only joking! I know you and Raife hate each other, all right? It's just funny to make you mad, that's all! Besides, _you said I looked like a slut!_"

Her own outburst seemed to strike some fear into her friend, whose angry blush had faded to ashen, and whose mouth was open and mute. Even Otto seemed slightly stunned and had pulled back a little, pushing his back against the wall.

"Is she okay?" he whispered to Megan, and Megan took a little too long to nod.

Daphne quickly realized what had started to happen, and in her horror, she swallowed down every ounce of anger she felt. She hadn't even been that angry, only irritated. Was that all it took now that she no longer had the Hammerite talisman? She shivered and the fear snuffed out the last spark of anger. "I'm sorry," she gasped. "I- I wasn't thinking-"

"It's fine," Megan said quickly. "Let's not ever mention any of this again. I overreacted. I was just scared that they might figure out what we were doing, but you're right. I was totally out of line. I'm sorry."

Daphne crossed her arms and looked down at the ground. She could still see the fear in Megan's face. "Forget about it. And don't look at me like that," she whispered. "I don't like this any more than you do."

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and saw Megan smile. It was a weak, perhaps forced smile, but the attempt was enough. "I didn't even realize-" she murmured. "I wasn't even that mad, it just-"

"I know," Megan replied. "It's fine. You couldn't help it. We'll work through this together, okay?"

Daphne nodded. "Right." Then, turning to Otto with a nervous huff, she asked, "So what's next?"

Otto's concern melted into a sly grin. "Follow me," he said, and the three of them hurried down the back alley, away from the docks and toward the warehouses.


	16. In Which the Hammer Comes Down

The _Jumping Jan_ creaked against her moorings in the gathering dusk. The street lamps far off at the shore twinkled. It was a calm night. Cool and dry. The first two pinpoint stars peeked out of the sapphire skies. Small waves licked the hull of the ship, and kissed the bounding, wooden feet of Jan. Her carved eyes gazed toward the open sea, and her wild curling hair raced up the front of the bow as though she were already rushing forward, playing her small pipe and grinning at the thought of adventure.

On deck, the crew of the _Jumping Jan_ prepared to set sail. The decks shined from a good swabbing; the sails were tight and secure; the cargo was carefully loaded in the hold, every last crate. But in the gloom of below deck, they had not noticed the slivers of light seeping through the cracks of one crate, tucked away amid the others. Nor had they paused to listen to the soft creaking of the ship, or the gurgle of waves lapping the woodwork; if they had, they might have heard the crinkle of a map and the quiet hiss of a turned page. They might have even heard breathless whispers comparing bruises received during the cargo loading, and a slightly less breathless hiss, "Well, I still think it was a good idea!"

Inside the crate there was no room to stretch out aching legs, much less stand. Otto and Megan crouched on one side with an ungainly sea chart unfolded before them; Daphne sat crunched on the other side with her knees pulled up, supporting the spine of Artemus' journal as she scanned the lines of his careful penmanship. No one was in a particularly good mood, but all were attempting to keep their irritation at bay.

"I'm pretty sure it's going to take us at least an hour to get close enough to Northermeed to make our move. But the deck won't be cleared by then, so we're going to have some trouble getting a row boat." Otto frowned and twisted the map toward the shining glyph over their heads to better see the small, scratchy writing.

"How are we going to know when an hour has passed?" Megan asked. "I can't even tell how long we've been _in_ here. Are you even sure this is the right ship?"

The boy gave her a dour look and rolled his eyes. "_Yes,_ I'm _sure_. I'm not stupid, you know."

"Well there have been a few times when you could have fooled me."

"Like when?"

Megan scowled and searched for a good example that would slam the snotty kid hard and finally win her an argument against him. But the longer it took to summon up a specific moment, the more Otto's smirk widened.

"You can't think of one!" he said at last with a scoff of victory.

"I just couldn't pick one out of the millions of- Oh, shut up." Megan crossed her arms and leaned back against the crate's side.

Otto grinned and turned his attention back to the map. "So what I'm thinking is this: I've been working on a glyph that should basically function like an invisibility potion, only indefinitely. It's still far from perfect—last time I gave it a try, _I_ turned invisible, but my clothes didn't-"

"We are _not_ showing up on Northermeed naked."

"Oh, come on, what are you being so prudish about? I've already seen most-"

There was a loud thwack and a squeak as Megan smacked him, none too lightly, but it only made him laugh and her blood boil.

"Would you two please be quiet for a minute?" Daphne shifted, adjusting her grip on the journal. "I think I've found something you might want to hear, Meg. Listen to this." Daphne flipped back a number of pages, then read aloud:

_The visitor has been moved to the infirmary by Keeper Ren, but it is not looking well for the poor lad. He can't be older than fourteen years, maybe fifteen at the most. His clothes are like nothing I or any other Keeper has ever seen before; not even Keeper Hesperia, and she has traveled to many foreign places. The lad has not fully come awake in all the time we've watched over him since Keeper Thomas found him bleeding by the Compound's secret entrance. How did he know where it was? Perhaps it was merely a lucky chance. The wounds he has sustained look to be from a city guard's blade; they are not the bruises of a Hammerite's mallet, and it is too clean a wound for a Pagan's knife. _

_He talks of strange things, this lad. Places no one has ever heard of. Things that don't exist. I fear the poor boy must be out of his mind, but Keeper Ren has heard no rumor of an escaped patient from any of the prominent care homes. And again, his clothes… They are of no material I have ever seen. His dark blue trousers are rough to the touch, and are shredded in places though they do not seem to be old enough to sustain such damage. The stitching is tight as though new. _

_And there's something about him… something I can't put my finger on. He seems strange, and strangely outside of himself. His feverish tales never vary, no matter who does the questioning. He claims to be Benjamin Garvey of some Michigan. He talks of some kind of box he was using for entertainment, and that's when he drifts off and loses consciousness. _

_Keeper Ren has tried to give him health potions, but the lad cannot drink. I fear he will pass away before morning, despite our best efforts._

"That was right around the time we showed up, Meg," Daphne said as she frowned down at the page, her finger still resting on the word "Michigan." "There was someone else who came here, just like us."

Megan's face was drawn and pale. "Does it say if he's all right?"

The other shook her head solemnly. "Two days later, Artemus writes that he dies. Wait, here it is."

_The lad died early this morning before sunrise. Keeper Uther was with him when it happened. The boy shivered and every muscle tensed up, and then with a sigh, his eyes rolled back and he passed. Keeper Uther hurried to inform me of this, but when I returned with him to see about preparing the body for burial, we found that it was gone. We searched the Compound, but could find no sign that it had been stolen. Surely, strange things are afoot in this city. I feel the chill of ill portent. _

Megan sighed and leaned back against the crate wall, hugging her stomach. "Well, now we know we can die here."

"We also know that Artemus knew there was another one of us out there," Daphne said, "even before we came to him. This is important information, and he's been hiding it from us!"

Megan scoffed. "And you're surprised by that? Since when has any Keeper actually told the whole truth? If he were here, he'd just use the same old argument he always uses: I didn't lie, you simply didn't ask the right question."

"I think he's worried about us, though." Daphne flipped to the last written page in the journal. "At least he sounds like it in this entry. I think he knows more about what's going on and what it all means than anyone else; maybe even more than Garrett. Here, let me read this."

_Garrett gave us some disturbing news this evening. He has been to the Old Quarter and has seen what looks like the remnants of a Pagan resurrection ceremony. There were two graves: one contained a body with no torso, and one contained a body with no head. Garrett seemed to believe these were sacrificial deaths, but I am not so certain. The conjuring dust would lead me to believe those specific body parts were necessary somehow. But why just the torso and the head? What about the arms and legs? _

_Then again, I suppose that if such limbs were sacrificed, it would not necessarily kill the donor. _

_The conjuring dust is what has me most concerned. It seems clear now, as Garrett himself believes, that the Pagans have resurrected someone—perhaps not a single one, but perhaps a conglomeration of several. The Hammerites' warning to Garrett transpired on the same evening Megan—and likely her friend Daphne—appeared, claiming to be from another world. It coincides as well with the lad who came to us, claiming to be from Michigan. I have a feeling that if I were to ask Megan, provided she would answer me, she would be familiar with the name of this place. That means that three lives were brought here, clearly by force, at the same time as the resurrection took place. _

_The Hammerites believed that somehow the Pagans had brought something unnatural to this place, through an item or some kind of ritual. Is it possible that somehow, in attempting to bring this conglomeration of bodies back to life, the Pagans somehow unwittingly opened a channel to some other world? But why only three? _

_The Pagans' interest in regaining the Eye, and the Hammerite's clear interest in keeping it from them, leads me to believe that it is an intricate part to this whole mess. I am not sure yet what to make of it, but I suspect that if the girls' friend ever does get the Eye into Pagan hands, it will set into motion something truly terrible. _

_I wonder if each resurrected limb drew on some kind of life force? That would explain at least the three, I think. I have read about some Pagan rituals which use the life-force of others to animate dead tissue. But this—to resurrect a body made from several different people? I have never read anything that would explain it, or its purpose. But supposing this ritual somehow required life-force to animate the limbs again, the head, the torso—I believe the heart—the arms, and the legs, that would mean that there are—or were—four of these people pulled into our world out of their own._

_Megan said that this place, this world, was "a game" in her own. Perhaps they come from a plane of existence which transcends our own? Perhaps it even created our world? It seems far-fetched to me, but could it not be possible? Their life force, were that the case, would be significantly stronger than our own. I suppose their life force would be the purest to use for a Pagan ritual, even if the Pagans were unaware of the source from which they drew the necessary strength. _

_I will ask Keeper Cyrus to see if he can locate a fourth person from this "other world." If he can find one, that will verify this interpretation. If not, then perhaps there is some important shred of information I am missing. _

_I will speak with the girls tonight and see if I can't find out a little more about this other place. Perhaps it will shed some light on how we could send them home?_

"He wants to help us get home!" Daphne said, closing the book. "How can he be all that bad if he wants to help us? Sure, he keeps lots of secrets, but who's to say that if we hadn't decked him with a hardcover he wouldn't have told us about this stuff?"

"Wait, what's all this about another world?" Otto asked, glancing from one to the other. "I thought you were all just thieves."

Megan frowned down at her knees, thinking. After a long pause, she said quietly, "He thinks there's another one of us here. Somewhere."

Daphne shifted onto her knees. "When we get out of Northermeed, I think we should find Artemus—alone—and talk about this. He obviously knows a lot more about what might have happened than we do."

"I'm not going to go walking back into some trap just so they can keep us locked up and ask us lots of questions."

"But what if they can get us home? Isn't it worth it?"

Megan glared at Daphne for a moment, but the look soon faded and she nodded with a sigh. "Maybe you're right. I just don't trust Keepers. That's all. Who's to say he didn't write all that in there simply because he suspected we'd somehow get our hands on it?"

"Geez, are you paranoid," Daphne replied with a grin. "I mean, sure, Keepers are pretty insightful, but they're not _exactly_ psychic."

"What's all this about another world?" Otto demanded. "What are you talking about? What's going on? Is Raife from a different world, too?"

"No, he's a local, all right," Megan replied. "Look, it's kind of a long story."

"We've got an hour or more."

Just then, overhead, they heard the cry for the anchors to be drawn up and the heavy clattering of the anchor's chain being pulled in. Otto extinguished the glyph light and they all disappeared into the darkness.

"Better keep our voices really low now," the boy's voice said. "In an hour's time, we'll slip out and I'll put the invisibility glyph on us. It'll probably work all right, even with clothes on. We'll just have to be very careful.

"And now," he said, "You can explain to me what all this nonsense about other worlds is about."

#

Sherry curled as tightly as she could into the corner beside the stone sarcophagus, praying to the Builder, the Trickster, and anything else that might even consider listening to a street girl's pleas that the clinking of invisible chains would pass her by, unnoticed. She clutched the invisibility potion to her chest, barely able to keep it from slipping out of her sweating hands. A drop of cool perspiration trickled from her temple down to her chin, and though it itched like mad, she couldn't move to brush it away. Not with the thing so near, looking for her. She could hear its rasping laughter—see it's skeleton grin. Her heart was in her throat, and the air had long since fled her lungs. She realized now that breathing was a luxury afforded only to penitent Hammerites in these twisted tunnels of the dead.

Perhaps carrying a three-foot mallet helped keep one calm when the ghosts stalked past.

Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth as the thing drew near, step after step bringing it closer to her hiding place. Did the torchlight touch her here? Did darkness hinder undead eyes? The phantom chains grated against the floor; the footsteps fell heavily beside her. Sherry stared down, certain that if she looked up and caught its eye, she would learn very quickly that a Hammerite in death is no safer than a Hammerite in life.

It paused, listening. Had she made a noise? The thundering of blood in her ears was so loud and so strong it made her feel as if her whole body rocked back and forth with each pulse. Could it hear her heartbeat?

A cold breeze murmured through the tombs, but her skin couldn't prickle anymore. Death loomed beside her in the well-lit passage, listening, waiting, thirsty for heathen blood.

_Just go,_ she thought in a whisper, _leave me alone. My mother was a good Hammerite. She trusted the Builder, and I swear to Him that if you pass by and let me go, I'll give fifty silver coins to the next collection box I see! _

Breathing. It was breathing, or thought it was breathing. Raspy breath in, raspy breath out.

_Please go! I won't tread here long, I can swear that much to you! And once I leave, I swear I will never trespass here again._

The clink of ghostly chains, a shifting of massless weight, and then the footsteps resumed, passing down the hall, growing softer and softer. Sherry remained curled up in the shadows, listening. It was gone, returned to its phantom patrol. Would it come back around?

Shivering almost too much to stand, Sherry crept from her hiding place and glanced down both ends of the passage, but no translucent Hammerite was in sight. On the wall in front of her, a small copper sign reading "Workshops" pointed down the hall, the way the thing had gone. Likely, its path was a circular one; it would not double back on its own steps. This was the safest way to proceed.

Cautious of the noise she made as she walked, Sherry followed the torch-lit passage past dark alcoves and cold sarcophagi. Small golden hammers, unlit candlesticks, small, saintly statuettes littered the floor around and on top of the stone slabs. Easy pickings for the resourceful thief. But she was no thief, and even the thought of laying a commandeering finger on one of the holy relics with phantom zealots roaming about made her keep her hands wrapped tightly around her invisibility potion.

Through the stone passageways, she could hear the sounds of bellows and the clinking of metal work. The air had grown warmer, gradually, and she suddenly realized that her skin no longer prickled at the cold. As she turned the corner, she could see the door to the workshops standing open, a furnace filled with fire belching heat in her direction. If she only closed her eyes, she could imagine sitting beside the hearth at the bar, soaking up the heat in the moments between serving another patron. Never in her whole time as a barmaid had she ever thought she would look back with fondness on those times, or think that they had been remotely safe and comforting.

The slithering hiss of chains moving made her jump and she glanced behind her. Was that a flicker of movement in the dim shadows between the torches? Was it coming after her again? Had she been spotted?

The only way to move was forward. Her fear of the undead Hammerites was even stronger than her fear of meeting with those still living. In a few quick steps she was at the door of the workshop, and with a fleeting glance behind her to look for pursuers, she ducked inside, shut the door, and ran to the first shadowed corner she could find. The grinding of gears and the roaring of the furnaces drowned out any other sound from the catacombs. Bubbling metal plopped and hissed in a giant melting vat, the heat it emanated made her face and eyes burn.

For some time, she waited, listening for movement inside the workshop and watching the door for any sign of a ghostly entrance. She heard and saw neither. She was alone in the sweltering heat, and it built up the strength she had lost in the cold, damp catacombs. Gradually, she regained her courage, too.

When at last she emerged from the warm, dark shadows, she felt her confidence returning. To think that the Hammerites took so little interest in their fortress' security that a street girl with no thieving background could slip in so easily. She could have laughed in their faces for being so naïve. Did they think the Builder would protect them?

This front room of the workshop had only the furnaces and the bubbling, boiling metal in cauldrons. There wasn't even a workbench here, and there was certainly no Gus. Where would they put something like him?

Sherry stalked through the room, unconcerned by the bright light of the furnaces. She was alone here, and knew she was in no danger. Yet. She kept her ears and eyes tuned for the slightest change—a cool draught of air, a shift in the throbbing sounds of the fires—anything would have sent her ducking to the nearest shadowed spot. But the heat stayed strong, and the noises remained steady as she stepped into the next room. Here, scraps of metal were piled high; even the Hammerites felt this an unimportant room, for there was almost no light save for what came through the doorways on either side.

Sherry hurried through it and into the next, high-vaulted room, where she found herself staring into a copper cherub face. At first, she jumped back, startled to find even a sightless pair of eyes looking directly at her after so long of avoiding detection, but her gasp of surprise quickly faded.

"Gus, thank goodness!" she whispered, moving toward him. Her eyes followed his metal face up to where his looming body should have been. Slowly, a chill pierced the heat of the workshop, wriggling like a worm into her chest.

His body—or what his body had been—was no longer there. Instead, his cherub face was attached to some kind of shield, and the shield was attached to an enormous crouching thing. It was easily three times larger than Gus' original body had been, and appeared to have a place in its chest, behind the shield, that could have held a person.

Behind her, she felt a gust of musty, cold air, and Sherry quickly dove to hide behind a pile of metal crates. Footsteps and voices, muffled by the workshop noises, approached.

"How close are we to being finished?"

Two Hammerites entered the room led by an acolyte. It was the acolyte who had spoken.

"This is difficult work," the first of the two Hammerites said, glancing with a scowl at the metal monstrosity before them. "We have not thine skill with such materials. This is…not something we have been trained to do."

"You're craftsmen, aren't you?" the acolyte snapped, moving to stand in front of the cherub face. He couldn't have been more than sixteen. He stroked the metal face with an almost loving touch. "The Builder works not just in wood and stone, but in metal as well."

"This is true, Brother Farrus," the other Hammerite said to his companion. The first's scowl darkened at the comment. "The Hammer speaks the will of the Builder. Surely, we canst do better and work with greater speed if he requests?"

"Don't suck up to me, Prolan." The young man turned on the second of the Hammerites with a chilling glare. "Neither I nor the Builder care for posturing flattery. I want results, not compliments. You said it could be finished by today, and yet here we are—no closer to our goals."

The second of the two bowed his head deeply toward him. "It is with the greatest humility that I taketh the responsibility for this abominable failure. Thou hast every reason to blame me."

"Damn right, I do," the boy replied, turning to walk to the other side of the workshop hidden by the boxes where Sherry crouched. "The Builder sends me to deliver this city and yourselves to His holy hand, and you waste my time with your petty sect battles. I know what this is about." The two Hammerites stiffened, and Sherry could imagine the young man turning abruptly to face them. "You're so consumed with earthly pride that you loathe touching one of Karras' creations."

The first opened his mouth to say something in reply, but the young man did not allow it.

"No! Don't make up excuses, don't tell me you've done your best or that you don't know how to work with this material. Everything you could possibly need is transcribed in Karras' writings. He explains _everything_, and you'd know this if you'd bothered to crack the cover."

There was something about his voice, his way of speaking, that reminded her of someone.

"Thou art correct, Oh Holy Messenger of the Builder," Brother Prolan said, again sinking his head as if showing deep respect. "We hath been remiss in our duties to thee, and for that-"

"_Shut up_, Prolan! I don't want your hollow sacrifices and self-punishment. What I _want_ is for my suit to be completed! You said yourselves that the Pagans have a stranglehold on this city, and if not the Pagans, then the City Guard, and if not them, then it's the thieves. This city is possessed by everyone _but_ the Builder, and you stand here in front of me professing your undying loyalty when all I see are failed, barely half-hearted attempts! You haven't spoken to the Evil One as I have; I have seen his Pagan heart through the Builders' eyes, and if you continue to drag your feet, those tree-huggers will get the upper hand and _destroy_ us!"

It was Brother Farrus who took a step forward, his face shining with perspiration. Sherry could only imagine how hot it must been in these workrooms for a Hammerite in full armor. "I beg thine pardon, Holy One, but is not that filthy wretch locked deep within this compound? How could he perpetrate any such act of evil while he doth lie behind our holy bars of iron?"

She heard more than saw the tiny metal hammer fly across the room and ricochet off Farrus' breastplate. The man barely winced, which was more than she could do. The little hammer skittered to the floor at her feet. Brother Prolan followed its path and looked right into her eyes.

"A heathen spy!" he shouted, brandishing his hammer as the other two turned to look where he pointed.

Whether it was divine intervention from the Builder, or a humorous little trick on the part of the Trickster, Sherry jerked up the invisibility potion, downed it in a single gulp, and vanished into thin air. It gave her a moment's head start, allowing her to stumble back from her hiding place just before Prolan's hammer slammed into the slate tile where she'd crouched, shattering it into a hundred tiny pieces.

She spun away, dizzy and disoriented, right into the waiting arms of the acolyte. He was strong and his grip was tight. In one swift push, he tackled her invisible body to the ground and held her there, shouting something to the others. Flecks of spit pattered her cheek as she struggled against his grip, but soon, the two others joined him, pinning her to the ground.

Then she was visible again, and the acolyte stood over her, glaring down at her with a strange, twisted smile. "Well, look what we have here," he said, crossing his arms. "A spy."

Was it better to talk or to stay silent? Either could result in her death.

The young man bent down beside her, daubing the blood on his lip where her elbow had caught him. "Thief or pagan?" he asked. His voice was calmer now, but she had never felt comfortable when a Hammerite was calm. "Come on now," he said, "I'm not going to hurt you…much. Answer me quickly, and maybe I'll take it easy on you."

"Why art thou wasting thy time?" Proland demanded. "Kill her now! She knows too much!"

The boy's hard eyes flickered from her face to the Hammerite's. "Don't tell me what to do, Proland. I'm in charge here." When he returned his gaze to her, it was softer still. Not a good sign. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.

Time to lie. There wasn't much worse than being bludgeoned to death; might as well take a chance and see if the outcome wasn't a little better. "Yes," Sherry gasped, doing her best to look doe-eyed and helpless. Tormented. It usually worked miracles with the penitent crowd who lurked the dark alleys on lonely nights. "You're the Builder's Hammer. His Holy One."

The boy's gaze was piercing. Hard. He was questioning her every word. "Why are you here? How did you find this place?"

"I was looking for you," Sherry lied. "I came to the cathedral to beg for your help."

"My help?" She could see the doubt in his eyes. If he decided that she was lying to him, she was a dead woman. "What for?"

"My father. He was a Mechanist, and the Hammerites took everything from him. They beat him and scoured his hands. He can't work, and we're starving."

Was that a crack in the doubt? Perhaps it was working, but better not to push it too far or her lies would become too complicated. Better to act on more instinctual needs. Sherry breathed deeply, making certain her chest swelled in her bodice. The young man's eyes flickered down. Good. He was human after all, not some divine being from the heavens. Human she could work with.

"A Mechanist, you say?"

"Yes," she breathed. His eyes hadn't made any attempt to move back up to her face. A clean hook, this one. If she were lucky, she might get out of this unscathed yet. "He was a gear-smith. He helped build Karras' servants."

Her knowledge of mechanist trivia ended there; if he asked her any more penetrating questions, he'd see her for what she was, and no amount of bosom-heaving or lash-fluttering would help her. Better distract him.

"Please," she begged, "don't hurt me. The Hammerites have taken everything from us…from me." A well-timed glance toward her legs made all three look down as well. _That's right, let your minds go. How had the men who assaulted my fake father used me? Was it rough? Did I scream for mercy?_ Even stiff Brother Farrus was flushing a deep, hearty red, and not from the heat of the furnaces.

The acolyte was the first to look back at her face. His eyes were hard again. "You're lying." He knew. She could see it in his cold gaze and in the stiffness around the corners of his lips. How did a man so young learn to make that wizened expression? "But you do know something. Farrus-" The Hammerite's head jerked up. "-bring her to the dungeon. A cell of her own, please, away from other prisoners. Our little friend here is quite skilled in manipulation, and I don't want her working her wiles on the guards down there."

Farrus nodded, swallowing as he rose to his feet and hauled her up from the floor. "Thine will I shalt obey, Holy One," he said hoarsely. There was no mistaking the look in Proland's eyes as he watched his companion grip her arms behind her.

"Oh, and Farrus," the boy said glancing up at the older man. "Keep your hands to yourself, or you might find the little tramp has snitched your knife and buried it in your chest."

#

They were being chased through the dark, twisting streets. Megan's head spun from the turns and shortcuts they took. None of them spoke, but she could hear their panicked breathing. The Hammerites were gaining on them, but she couldn't see them. She could only hear their shouts of "Heathen!" and "By the Builder!" Their voices rang off the stone walls, the volume flickering in and out like the dancing shadows from street-hung torches. Gaining, they were gaining.

"Over here!" Raife shouted, and she and the others ran after him down a dark, cluttered alley. There were boxes and canvas bags everywhere. She kept tripping and falling farther behind. She tried to shout to tell them to slow down, to help her, but of the group, only Daphne looked back—one quick, fleeting glance. An apology in her eyes.

Behind her, she could hear the crashing of giant hammers slamming into the boxes, clearing the way for their wielders. She couldn't run; it was like the alley had filled with knee-deep mud. Everything slowed down. She begged for help, but her friends turned the corner.

There was a flash of blue light, and screams. Shrieks of pain and fear. Megan clawed her way over the boxes and barrels, threw herself toward the end of the alley.

There was blood. A sea of blood. It was smeared on the walls, on the cobblestones; the torchlight made it shine. Daphne lay crumpled to the side, writhing in pain. Megan wanted to run to her, to help her, but she couldn't move. Basso's head rolled out of a shadowed alcove; the darkness had provided no hiding place for him.

She could see figures moving; shadow-cloaked figures with masks and crescent weapons in their hands. They swarmed over a body on the ground; blue light strobed the street. The legs pinned beneath them jerked, and over the cacophony of the Hammerites behind her, she could hear a moan that sounded like death itself sweeping through the streets.

It was so horrible, she screamed and awoke.

There was sunlight, and warmth. Mid-day already. The shades on her bedroom window were up, and tiny fluffy dust particles drifted in the light, swirling gently. She was warm, tucked amongst a pile of thick blankets and soft pillows. Her posters were on the walls. The mirror frame she made in eighth-grade shop class stood propped up against her small bookshelf, waiting to be hung up. Piles of binders and books lay on the floor.

Home. She was home.

A flood of relief swept over her and she sat up, elated. It had all been a dream! How could she not have realized that?

Her whole body started shaking with relief. None of that had happened. She had never been in the game. She had never killed a man. Daphne was at her own home, safe and sound, probably sleeping in, just like her.

She pressed her hands to her hot face, catching the tears rolling down her cheek. A dream! A dream! It was all just a dream! There were no Keepers, no Hammerites, no thieves, no robots, no Pagans, no zombies, no _anything_ from Thief! She was at home—at _home!_—and she always had been.

Downstairs she could hear her sister's terrier barking, probably at the breeze. Leaf-pattered shadows danced on her walls, across her bed, along the windowsill.  
Home!

The clink of breakfast dishes, the low murmur of her parents talking, even the strange gurgling of her sister's relaxation-alarm clock. Everything was fine. She was home, and it had all been just a horrible nightmare.

Megan sighed and lay back, grinning, savoring the rush of relief and ignoring the trickle of tears sliding along her cheeks and clogging her ears with water.

Below, she heard footsteps coming toward the staircase, heard a voice: "Megan!"

It wasn't her mother. Who was that? Daphne?

"Megan! Wake up!"

Megan jerked awake on the floor of the crate, the pale blue light of Otto's glyph barely illuminating the two faces looking at her. The cold swept over her immediately, and she started shaking. _Not a dream_.

"Megan, Otto says it's time to go. We need to get up on deck."

The warmth, the sunlight, the familiarity of home. Gone. She could barely breathe. "Yes, okay," she gasped, doing her best to ratchet down the shivers. "Right."

"Bad dream?" Otto asked. His youthful face looked sinister in the blue light, deeply shadowed.

She shook her head, but said, "Yes," as her eyes darted about the crate. It was tight, dark, and cold here.

Daphne put her hand on her shoulder. "You can tell us about it later," she said, and though she smiled, it was stiff. "Right now, we need to get going, or we'll miss Northermeed."

"My invisibility glyph is ready to go," Otto added. His voice was sympathetic. Was he trying to make her feel better?

Megan ran her hands over her face, wiping away the dampness around her eyes. Her clothes felt thin; her hands were cold. What were they thinking, going into a Hammerite stronghold? Did they have a death wish? She'd never made it through any Hammerite level without having to restart at least once. Could they restart here if they failed? _The boy from Michigan didn't restart, did he?_

"We shouldn't stall, then," she heard her own voice say. Her body ached as she pushed herself up into a crouch. "Which way out of this box?"

Otto pointed to the left. "This way."

"Are you sure? The box got all turned around when they loaded us."

The boy grinned confidently. "I just _know_, okay? Geez, will you relax? Who's brilliant idea was this, anyway? Was it yours?"

At any other time, she would have gladly slapped his face to wipe that smirk away, but at the moment, she felt too drained.

"Well, I feel safer _now_," Daphne said with a smirk and a wave of her hand toward the wall of the crate. "If you're so smart, you go first."

"With pleasure." Otto moved toward the wall and drew a glyph, whispering the incantations to activate it. The crate was suddenly filled with blinding white-blue light, and Megan had to squint to keep from ruining her night vision. Through the blur, she saw Otto's shadow slide through the wall as though it were a sheet of water.

"Well, here goes nothing," she heard Daphne say, sounding less than confident. Then Daphne's shadowy figure vanished.

With a deep, trembling breath, Megan plunged through the crate wall.

She'd expected to feel something—a rush, a tingle, anything—when she passed through the crate, but she felt nothing. It was like walking through open space. She followed the light and the flicker of shadows ahead of her. She could hear Otto's voice, echoing and distant telling them he was sure it was just a little further. It was quiet in this light—she couldn't hear the creaking of the ship or the soft grating of shifting crates as the boat pitched from one side to the other. It wasn't cold here, but it wasn't exactly warm, either. It was like a perfect spring day, when the temperature outside is the same as your skin.

With a pop, the light and pleasant sensations vanished, and she heard a shriek just before she hit an icy, wet thing. Salty water filled her mouth and darkness enveloped her. She clawed for air, and finally broke the raging surface, just in time to be slapped in the face again by a wave. The salt made her eyes sting, and the water was so cold, she couldn't feel her feet. Her clothes clung to her, pulling her down.

Far above her, she saw the globes of lantern-light on the ship's deck as it drifted past them. Even father away, she saw other dim lights. Then a wave struck her in the face, making her cough as it tried to trickle into her lungs.

Realization hit her hard. Panicked, she twisted around in the water, searching for some sign of life. "Daphne!" she called, but her voice was hoarse. It didn't seem to carry over the sharp waves pummeling her, tossing her like a twig. "Otto!"

A splash nearby, then a head emerged. A panicked, gargled cry, and then it sank again beneath the waves. Megan threw herself toward Otto, hauling herself through the water to him just in time to catch his sinking arm in her numb hand and yank him back up to the surface. He gasped at the air and clung to her, his arms around her neck as she struggled to stay afloat.

"Megan!" The familiar voice sent the first trill of relief through Megan as she turned to find Daphne stroking toward her. It was good timing, too, because Otto's weight pulled her down under the surface, and she felt herself choking as he flailed against her, trying to keep himself up.

Then his weight was gone, and she popped back up above the waves. "Megan! Are you all right?" Daphne's voice was thin and shook, but she seemed to be holding her own with Otto tucked under one arm.

"Fine!" Megan gasped, fighting to keep above the waves. "Northermeed!" She swung her arm in the direction of the dim lights.

"It's going to be a long swim!" Daphne shouted. "Maybe a mile! Can you make it?"

"Less talking, more swimming!" Megan sputtered, forcing her arms to start dragging her through the waves. She couldn't have said another word if she'd wanted to. Her lungs felt like they were in a vice, slowly being crushed of air.

Every stroke seemed short, hardy moving her forward at all. She tried to focus on the lights, on floating, on how wonderful it would feel to be ashore, but it wasn't long before desperation set in.

Whether they'd been swimming for hours or seconds, she felt herself sinking a little more with each stroke. Daphne trudged along beside her, dragging Otto's barely conscious body with her lifeguard stroke. Her eyes were always fixed on the lights with determination. Megan slipped further and further behind.

Once or twice, Daphne would stop, shout for her, and wait until she caught up. They never seemed to get closer. More and more, Megan's mind drifted to what it would be like to drown. Would it be slow? Or fast? Would it be a relief? Her arms and legs had gone totally numb long ago; she could barely tell if they were moving. Sooner or later, they wouldn't be, and she'd slip beneath the waves.

After the hardest fight of her life, Megan felt her body giving up. Her face dunked in the water as another wave slapped her so hard it actually stung, and she didn't have the strength to pull her head up again. She felt the water close over her back, she felt herself sinking further and further. In one last ditch effort, she threw all her energy into a forceful kick, and was rewarded when her leg slammed into a hard object. The pain vibrated through her bones and she jerked involuntarily, her head shooting up out of the water as she cried out. Then she felt a hand grab her shirt and haul her forward onto what felt like gravel.

The water fell away, and she stumbled forward, collapsing on solid ground. Daphne sat down hard beside her as Otto coughed and gulped air. The cold sea breeze cut through them, and Megan started shaking, curling in on herself as she savored the steadiness beneath her.

Daphne sighed and lay back on the dirt. "I thought that was it," she gasped.

"No kidding." Megan could barely get her voice to pass through her throat. Otto replied with no more than a guttural grunt.

Slowly, the water drained out of her ears and she could begin to hear the growl of the ocean as it hit the shore. There was a high-pitched noise above it that sounded vaguely familiar, but her mind refused to identify it. She couldn't lift herself up, but she opened her eyes, looking at the large, light-streaming windows of the Hammerite compound. Despite the stained glass bearing the ominous symbol of the Hammer, she couldn't help but be overwhelmed with joy at seeing it.

"What is that noise?" Daphne asked, shifting up onto her elbows.

Megan shook her head, relishing the smell of wet dirt. "No idea." Slowly, she pushed herself up onto her knees. Every inch of her shook under the strain of staying upright. "How's Otto?"

Daphne nudged the limp body with her foot. "Hey, idiot. You alive?"

The boy grunted.

"Thought you said you _knew_ which way to get out of that damned crate!"

Otto opened his eyes and glared at her, still too breathless to speak.

The high-pitched noise continued. Why did it sound so familiar? Where had she heard it before? Megan glared up toward the compound and felt her blood turn as cold as the sea. A troop of Hammerites were moving toward them, gradually. They couldn't have seen them yet, or they would have had their hammers raised.

"We need to get out of here," Megan whispered. Daphne lifted her head to look where Megan was staring and almost squeaked.

"Where? Where do we go?"

Otto had forced himself up on his arms, and he lay, gazing with wide, terror-stricken eyes at the approaching Hammerites. "Builder's balls," he gasped.

"We need to get out of here!" Megan hissed again, forcing herself to a crouch. "We need to leave. Move. Somewhere!"

The sound—the high pitched screeching—she knew what it was now. A siren. Someone had activated the alarm, and it didn't take a professional thief to guess who. Hell, it didn't even take an amateur thief. "Damn him!" she growled, just as the first of the Hammerites pointed toward them and she heard him shout.

The three scrambled to their feet, but their exhausted limbs could barely keep them balanced, much less move them with any speed across the slick, unsteady ground. Otto was the fastest of the three, having most of his energy left. Megan could barely get herself off her knees.

"Run!" she screamed at the boy, just before she felt a blunt object slam into her side and punch all the air out of her body. She curled in on herself and collapsed, pain crashing through her. Far away, she heard Daphne scream, but she couldn't respond. A gauntleted hand struck her across the face and everything went black.

#

A pair of silent eyes watched as the trio scattered; the acolyte fled successfully, disappearing among the rocks and shadows. Likely he would use some kind of glyph to hide himself. The two girls, however, were overtaken and beaten down. Not killed, not yet. But their fate didn't interest the silent observer, who had himself crawled from the sea, his dark clothes drenched. How diligently he had followed these three to bring him here, where his prey lurked.

He lifted the pale mask he wore and wiped the water from his face, a face no one had seen since his youth. Then he replaced the mask and stole along the bank to a shadowed overhang by the compound's walls. A shining glyph arose beneath his fingers and the wall faded, allowing him passage into the building.

_Soon._ His prey would fall swiftly. Now that he was here, it was only a matter of time. The Keeper-murdering thief would die soon.


	17. In Which Fear Is a Friend to No One

_Despite its morally speckled past, Northermeed Island and the manor upon it has since become a stronghold of fellowship and heartfelt worship. No longer do its noble stone walls observe the evils of self-indulgence and violence its past owners forced upon it. No longer does its craftsmanship reflect sinful, heathen objects of lust and greed._

_Its Great Hall, once a ballroom catering to the rich and selfish, now hears only the music of devoted hymn. Its private sitting rooms, in which conspirators and murderers contrived their plans, now hear only the whispers of penitent prayer. Of the original uses for the various wings, only the dungeon and purification chamber, the library, the subterranean boat dock and the treasuries retain their intended function._

_A Brief History of Northermeed Island_

_Hammerite Historical Text, author unknown_

Megan awoke to the rough touch of cold metal on her wrists and the slithering clink of chain on stone. It was dark where she was, and damp. She could still smell the brine of the sea. The only light came from a flickering torch down the hall, and its dim illumination lit the face of her reflection in a puddle.

Her whole body ached like she'd been caught in the riptides off the coast of Maine and bounced like a buoy against the rocks by the crashing waves. Her arms shook as she pushed herself back onto her knees and looked about.

The bars dominated her field of view. Bars and walls and shadow. There was nothing else to see, nothing else to think about. She was imprisoned.

It was quiet here, but far away, she could hear the rumble of the tumultuous ocean. Water dripped from the ceiling, the torch crackled as it burned, and her clothes hissed when she moved. The silence throbbed in her ears, in time with the thumping of her heart and the radiating pain in her back and shoulders. Twisting hurt, but when she lifted up the back of her shirt, she could make out the petals of a large purple blossom of bruised skin, even in the darkness. Seeing it seemed to bring the awareness of pain to the front of her mind, and she suddenly felt dizzy and nauseous.

Careful not to move to quickly, Megan positioned herself against the back wall of the cell, and leaned against it, closing her eyes. Her throat was dry, her lips were cracked. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth. All she could taste was salt.

"Megan?" The voice was little more than a breath, a ghost's voice. Daphne's voice. "Meg, are you awake?"

"Yeah," Megan said, but the word didn't get further than her throat, and came out as an unintelligible rasp. Swallowing hurt, but it helped a little. "Yeah, I'm awake."

She opened her eyes and looked down at her wrists, encircled by thick bands of metal. They chaffed her skin, and she could already see welts forming. The chains attached to them trailed along the floor and then up the wall, to one large eyehook sunk into the stone. Immutable.

"Did they get Otto?" Her tongue didn't like working like this. It fought her on every syllable and exhausted her. She just wanted to sleep.

"I don't think so. At least, I didn't see them bring him down here, and I think we're alone."

"Good." Megan pressed her lips together and forced another swallow. It moistened her throat a little, but not nearly enough. So thirsty.

"Meg, we need to get out of here."

_Understatement._ For a moment, she thought she'd spoken aloud, but when there was no reply, she realized it hadn't escaped her lips. "Agreed."

She needed water. Her fingers were wet from the floor and the nearby puddle. She lifted her hand to her lips, and the manacle slid down on her arm, scraping the skin and pulling fine hairs. It weighed a ton, and it was all she could do to moisten her lips before dropping the hand back to the floor. It clinked, and she winced, her ears trying to pull away from the noise.

She waited for Daphne to continue, to put forth a plan of action that hopefully included little, if any, movement on her part, but just when she heard a breath that sounded like the beginning of a sentence, the explosive creak of a door filled the silence and shattered their privacy.

A cacophony of booted footsteps thundered down the hall, and the light of the torch first flickered and then vanished as bodies passed in front of its meager light, blotting it out. They came to stand just outside the bars of her cell, and she heard the tinkle of keys and the grating click of the cell being unlocked. She couldn't make out their faces: just oval silhouettes with the occasional splash of light across a nose or mouth.

One entered into her cell and came toward her. _I should move,_ she thought. _Try to run, try to fight._ But they were only words she thought, and her body refused to listen. The guard knelt down beside her and again, she heard a key click in a lock. The first manacle fell free from her wrist.

And for a moment, she thought they might be letting her go.

"Bring her," a voice from beyond the bars said. It was a cold voice. A hard, unmoved voice. And then, to someone else, as the guard hauled her to her feet, she heard the voice say, "Hath the purification chamber been readied? The fires art stoked?"

The response was affirmative, and her knees wobbled. "Where are you taking me?" she asked, but the guard who drew her toward the bars did not reply.

A reed of strength stiffened her back, and made her stop moving her feet obediently. "What's going on? Where are we going?"

The guard pulled on her, but fear made her strong, made her forget the pain.

"Atheros," the cold voice said, and now she could make out a weathered face behind a Hammerite mask. "Do not tarry."

The guard caught her behind the knee, and her stance slipped. He caught her and shoved her forward, through the grated doorway and into the hall. Another pair of hands secured her shoulders then, and she felt the futility of fighting.

"Megan?" Daphne's voice behind her made her stomach turn over on itself.

The guard twisted her arm and pushed her forward, following the shadowed forms of the others as they began to leave. His gauntleted fingers dug into her shoulder like stone. She couldn't turn her head left or right because of that grip. Behind her, she heard Daphne call out again, "Megan!"

The door to the hall of cells slammed shut behind her, creaking on its hinges. The air was warmer in the outer hall, and there were so many torches on the walls compared to the darkness her eyes had become used to, Megan had to squint to see. Was this the way she'd come in?

The escort turned a corner and another door opened. The grip on her shoulders and arms tightened, and her heart started beating faster.

Then she saw the room. Fires blazed in two furnaces at the far end. And in the center…

Her eyes watered and her nose stung. Her heart choked her in her throat, and her legs completely gave out. The guards were there to hold her up and then to lift her onto the wooden plank in the center: the plank surrounded by blood-soaked flagstones. The plank with arm and leg restraints to keep a person from writhing.

This was going to hurt, and not the intellectual kind of hurt she felt when the Trickster tore out Garrett's eye. This wasn't a cut scene she could skip over.

"Come now, my child," the cold voiced man said, motioning to the guards as they strapped her down, even as her throat squeaked, unsure of what word to say to make them stop. "This is for the good of thy soul. Purification is a blessing for sinners like thee."

Megan shook so hard, the back of her head bumped on the wood plank, and the buckles of the restrains chimed as her arms and legs trembled. Her teeth clattered in her head, and tears rolled down her cheeks.

"No! Please don't-!" Her own voice sounded so far away from her, so weak and unconvincing.

The cold voiced man stooped by one of the furnaces and withdrew a long metal poker, white hot from the heat. Then he turned to the guards standing by the plank and nodded for them to depart. The door clanged closed behind them, and the cold voiced man approached. He placed his tome of text on the stand beside the plank and paused to smile down at her.

"Take heart, child," he said gently. "Think of thy soul."

And then he laid the burning metal against her throat, and the stones of Northermeed shivered with her screams.

#

It was stupid to be scared of making mistakes. Otto knew that now. Why be afraid of bruising your vanity when there were so many better things to be scared of? Like drowning. And men with giant hammers chasing you through the dark. And being alone on a hostile island, far from safety, when you've just seen your only friends attacked and probably killed right in front of you.

He lay on his back in the narrow, boarded hallway, staring up at the nets of cobwebs as he gasped for the musty air his lungs didn't seem eager to absorb. He was wet and exhausted, and his heart jumped around in his chest like the toad that had fallen into his father's wine jug last spring. But the air was warmer in this secret passage, so at least he wasn't cold. That was good.

_What now?_

He could hear heavy footfall pacing through the inside wall. There was no sound but the muffled rumble of the ocean on the other side where his shaking hands had pressed his glyph into the outer wall and slipped inside. There would still be guards everywhere, though the whining siren had stopped some time ago, and the angry shouts had died away.

Slowly, he sat up, wincing at the cramped muscles. _Organize. Think clearly. _Otto closed his eyes and began dissecting his situation, pulling it apart into manageable challenges.

The first challenge: _ Find Megan and Daphne, if alive. They'll be in some kind of dungeon, probably on the lower floors. Need to find a map. _

Clenching his teeth, Otto forced himself to stand. It was tricky because his legs were so wobbly. That meant he'd have to be extra slow. Extra careful. He wouldn't be able to run much if he needed to escape. For the time being, he would stay in this passage way until he got to the end, and then he'd see where he ended up.

In the quiet darkness, his stomach growled, and Otto pressed his arms against it, trying to muffle its loud complaint.

"Builder's balls, I hope this hall ends at the kitchens," he muttered.

But the passage did not end in the kitchens. Instead, through a secret twisting panel in the wall, it opened into a room more quiet—if possible—than the uninhabited hall itself. There was no carpet on the floor, and the walls were bare, save for two woven tapestries of the gilded hammer symbol. There was a hammer statue on the far side of the room, and a row of small candles stood in front of it, some of them lit. The meager light made only a puddle of brightness on the stone floor in front of the low bench a few feet from it, and Otto avoided this to keep to the shadows.

In a copper bowl by the door, he noticed a few silver coins. The voice of his mother in his head made him hesitate for a moment, but only a moment. _Who knows what might happen here,_ he rationed. _If I'm the only one left, I'll need to fend for myself sooner or later, and this could feed me, if I get desperate enough. _

It was a plausible explanation, and when the cash settled into the small pouch he carried, its weight made him smile. It was so strange that he'd been born the son of a city guard, when stealing and sneaking made him feel so good.

He stood at the door, listening for any hint of footfall or voices, but when at last he was convinced that it was clear, he opened the door and went out. This hall was brighter, and torchlight revealed everything. Only the shadowed alcoves behind the statues of saints provided any safety, and hiding from one to the next Otto made his way down the hall. Each door he passed, he pressed his ear to the wood and listened for movement, but it seemed for all purposes that he was alone.

The first room he surveyed was another like the before, a stark, bare room for prayer and meditation. The next was little more than a storage closet, filled with boxes of candlesticks, a few dusty tomes of hymns and accounting records, a broom, a mop, a bucket, and a pile of tin collection pans. Empty, of course. But through the last door, he found himself in a small study with an empty, if meticulously made bed. A fire burned in the hearth and the air was warm. Though there was no one about, it wouldn't be long until whoever owned these quarters returned.

Otto made the best of the little time he had. He searched the scanty bookshelf first, but there was nothing interesting there save for the risqué biography of Lord Peterson, notorious philanderer, hidden behind several other books. Otto grinned as he flipped through the oft-turned pages, and at length, he slipped the book into his shirt for future study. The desk had even less of interest. Besides a few scribbled—and undelivered—notes to the cook about the poor quality of the previous night's mutton or the pallor of the questionable green beans, there was nothing but blank parchment and the inkwell.

But at the foot of the bed, in an unlocked chest, he found a roll of parchment containing a map of the compound. Otto studied it quickly, glancing over the lines several times before tucking it into his shirt. He didn't need to bring it; already the lines had imprinted themselves in his mind, just like the glyphs he had read about in the library of the Keepers.

_They never appreciated me,_ he thought with a smirk as he slipped out of the room and into the shadows of the nearest hall alcove. _I could have been the greatest Keeper, but they had me washing floors and filling inkwells! _

At the end of the corridor, Otto found himself facing the far end of the cathedral's chapel. Opposite him, on the far side, was another hallway, and to his left, doors leading out into the rest of the compound.

_Go through those doors, and through the foyer to the left. The stairs there will lead me down to the subbasement, and from there, the dungeons are to the right. Piece of cake._

He wondered what Megan and Daphne would say when he showed up and drew his glyphs on the doors of their cells. They certainly wouldn't be able to say he hadn't pulled his own weight! Maybe they'd even forget about his misdirection on the ship…

A pair of guards paced along the length of the chapel's wooden pews, one murmuring scripture while the other hummed a clip of a hymn. They seemed placid enough at the moment, but he didn't doubt that the sight of him would stir up all the fiery vengeance he'd seen in the faces of the men who chased him, hammers swinging.

He'd have to be very sneaky if he wanted to cross the chapel and slip through the central doors unnoticed. The thought of being so daring made him smile, but the nearing footsteps of the first guard made a cold pang of fear leap in his chest. Ducking back into his alcove hiding place, he crouched and waited for the guard to pass.

That was when he noticed the dark stranger standing in the shadows of the opposite hall. At first, his heart leapt with relief, thinking he had spied the thief Raife lurking there, but when he looked closer, the relief evaporated. A pale crescent moon of unnaturally flat face looked out at him from beneath the heavy black hood. A mask.

_An enforcer!_

It stood motionless in the far shadows for some time, and then it turned and vanished from sight down the hallway. The guard humming his hymn didn't miss a note. No one else had seen it, and no one else likely would before it was too late.

_Warn Raife._

It was the thief the enforcer was after, and as much as Otto believed Raife was a sly thief, he had no doubts that the enforcer was more sly, and much more deadly. The thief would need as much help as possible to get away unscathed.

_But what can I do?_ Otto shivered at the thought of those shadowed eye sockets watching him from the shadows. Had it seen him? Did it know who he was? Had they passed in the halls of the Keeper Compound before, when he walked with all the other apprentices? Had this been the one who's eye he caught when all the others kept their faces turned away, afraid of the passing enforcers?

He knew the enforcers were only men, but they were dangerous men. Men who could easily use forbidden glyphs to kill and maim and destroy. There was no chance of him stopping the enforcer, even if he surprised it. He wasn't stupid enough to want to try. But he could follow.

_We came out here to help Raife,_ he thought as he watched the humming guard pass him and turn his back. _It'd be a waste of everything if he dies. Megan and Daphne would want me to help him first. _It sounded logical, and he knew it was the truth, but he couldn't help hesitating. What if Megan and Daphne were still alive? Didn't they need his help, too?

_They'll be mad at me if they find out I knew the enforcer was here and didn't do anything._

That ended the argument in his mind, and when he saw his opening, he took it, darting across the back of the cathedral to the opposite hall.

#

_Old political bumper stickers. _

_Animal abuse._

_Ghost Hunters not following up on seemingly amazing discoveries._

The screams had stopped a while ago, replaced now by silence punctuated by the occasional whimper. It was the whimper that proved over and over again that Megan was at least alive, if only for another minute. Daphne banged her forehead against the unyielding bars of her cell, her cheeks sticky from crying. If only she could get angry!

But she was just so scared.

She'd never heard screams like that before, and that it was Megan's voice only made it worse. "Hang in there, Megan," Daphne croaked to the silence. "I'm coming. I'm coming!"

She tried again, working up as much frustration as she could, grasping at straws for kindling to start the internal fire.

_People who get mad at you for driving the speed limit._

_Postponing essay due dates because slackers didn't get their work done._

_Those damned Hammarites!_

But it was cold in her chest, and the thought of Hammerites only made her think of Megan in pain, maybe dying. It sure sounded like she was dying. What could they be doing to her? Would she live? If she didn't live, what would happen? What happened in this place if they died? And they could die—Artemus' journal had proven that much.

What if they came for her, next?

"Shit, shit, _shit_!" Daphne shouted. "Get _angry_, damn it!" But her voice trembled and cracked, and she was so ashamed that it brought new tears to her eyes. Why couldn't she do something when it was needed? Why couldn't this curse she carried actually _help_ her for once?

The cell bars were gritty and cold on her forehead as she sagged against them, exhausted. "I just want to go home," she whimpered, and that got her crying again, though softly, too tired to do more.

Footsteps in the hallway, several people. Daphne drew back into the shadows of her cell as the door at the far end creaked open and the procession passed. There was a moment, in the brief torchlight, when she saw a flash of limp arms and legs carried by one of the figures, but then it was gone.

She heard a cell door shriek in protest as it was opened, heard the whisper of something being laid gently on the ground.

"Come, Brother Thamus," a gruff voice said. "There art work to be done."

"Ay, Brother Atheros," another replied.

And then the cell door squeaked as it shut; the lock clicked, and the guards passed on down the hall. With the heavy clunk of the far door, the corridor of cells became quiet again. Daphne slunk to the bars, pressing her cheek against them in the hopes of seeing something, anything. From where she squinted, she could see a pale hand, palm up, fingers loosely curled. There was something dark under the nails and smeared on the tips of the fingers.

"Megan." The name rasped on the walls, even as only a whisper.

There was no response. No shift.

Daphne started trembling again, and she called out—with more strength: "Megan!"

Nothing.

"Oh, God. Oh, God!" Daphne leaned against the bars, her hand to her mouth. Her eyes were dry, but her heart cried and ached. She was dizzy, and felt sick to her stomach. "Megan! Megan, can you hear me?"

As the echo of her own voice faded into silence once more, she heard it. So soft, so quiet: breathing. Ragged, unsteady breathing, but breathing! Her own breath caught on every long pause between the faint inhales, and her ears strained for any hopeful sound.

_I've got to get angry! I've got to get to her!_

Daphne squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her fists so tight her fingernails bit into her palms. "Get angry," she muttered to herself, catching onto the little flicker of hatred that had survived only on the thought of those Hammerites smiling as Megan screamed. "Those bastards deserve to die!"

"I agree," a calm, familiar voice said, "though I never expected to hear it from you."

A clink of keys, and Daphne looked up at the dark figure who stood in front of her, watching her with a certain measured distaste.

"Raife!" she breathed, staggering to her feet. But her momentary relief was overwhelmed by a glimpse of the lifeless hand in the cell beyond. "Health potions!"

"Health potions?" He eyed her suspiciously. "You look all right to me. What do you need it for?"

Megan had once told her about the time she nearly wiped the smug look off the thief's face with the tip of a dagger, and for the first time, Daphne not only sympathized, but felt the frustration.

And there it was. The anger. So small at the moment, but present. Brewing.

"It's not for me!" she hissed, "It's for Megan! She's probably dying as we speak, so stop standing around and _do something_!"

It was surprising how much the venom in her voice affected him. The smug look dropped and he glanced down the hall. A step later, he stood outside Megan's cell. In this dim light, the lines of his face looked deeper, and his eyes were darker. He looked tired, beat to death. And he looked older. The first time she'd seen him, she would have guessed him to be mid-twenties; but here, in this moment, he looked almost forty.

His voice was so quiet when he spoke, she almost thought she imagined it. "Shit."

He unlocked the cell and stepped inside, out of sight. She heard the whisper of movement, saw the hand disappear, but it moved like a puppet's—not of its own volition, but because someone else pulled the string.

"Is she alive?" Daphne asked, trying to keep the fire burning—even just as low coals—in her chest.

"Barely." His voice was harsh and cold.

"Do you have a health potion? Can you help her?"

There was no reply to this, only the clink of first one and then two glass objects being carefully placed on the stone floor. Again, the whisper of movement, and Raife's voice, distant and quiet, muttering unintelligible curses.

Daphne waited, holding her breath. She heard liquid dripping on the floor, heard Raife shift again. A moment later, the thief emerged from the cell, brushing back the stray strands of hair that had fallen into his face. His mouth was a hard line, and his jaw was set.

"Is she going to be okay?" Daphne asked as he made his way to her cell and unlocked first the gate and then the manacles on her wrists. Beneath the coarse metal bracelets her skin was red and raw.

The thief didn't look her in the eye, but cast a glance back toward the other cell. "I only had two on me," he said. "She'll need at least one more. Maybe another after that."

He twitched, suddenly, as though someone had tapped him on the shoulder, and his eyes darted about the flickering shadows of the hall. Daphne looked too, half expecting to hear a troop of Hammerites drawing near, but she heard nothing. Saw nothing.

"What is it?" she asked in a whisper.

Raife stood, tense, and then with a scowl, he shook his head. "Nothing. Come on. We can't waste time."

He led the way back to Megan's cell, and for the first time Daphne saw her friend completely. Dark red welts crisscrossed her skin. Her clothes were torn, revealing more of the burn scars beneath. Even with the healing potions, they were still blistered. One particularly long of burn trailed from the base of her throat all the way up the left side of her face to a patch of blood-matted hair at her temple. There were other cuts and abrasions as well, but that particular scar hypnotized Daphne and she couldn't look away, even when she fell to her knees beside her friend and took up her limp hand.

"She looked worse a minute ago," the thief muttered, standing behind her. "Those scars may never go away, fully. There are some wounds even healing potions can't erase."

"But she'll live?"

She didn't need to ask. Already, she could see Megan's chest rising and falling in a gentle, healthy rhythm. Her hand was warm to the touch, and when Daphne squeezed it, there was a faint squeeze back. Daphne bit her lip and brushed the damp tangles of bangs away from Megan's brow. She'd live. She'd be okay. That was all that mattered.

"Move." Raife nudged her—albeit gently—out of the way and stooped to lift Megan into his arms. He seemed deliberately careful as he shifted her into a better position, keeping Megan's head propped against his shoulder, and for a moment it almost made Daphne smile.

"I remember when we had to carry you like that," she said.

The thief rolled his eyes and led the way out of the cell. "I'm glad I don't remember."

He led the way out of the cell and down the hall. Daphne followed, watching the pendulum sway of Megan's hand in front of him. When they came to the door at the end, she moved ahead and stood beside it, listening for movement on the other side.

"I didn't notice anyone when I came down," the thief said. "It's clear."

"I just want to make sure."

But it was quiet, and she opened the door. At the creak of its hinges, Megan stirred and groaned, and Raife paused, waiting until she slipped back into quiet sleep before moving again.

The outer hall was better lit than the place of cells, and Daphne found herself hugging the wall as though some nanofiber of shadow might yet conceal her if they came across anyone. The thought of what she must look like nearly made her laugh, but a glance at the solemn thief and the wilted burden he carried dissolved the sensation before it fully formed in her throat.

"How did you know we were here?" Daphne whispered as they walked, not wanting to raise her voice too much for fear of blocking out any warning sound.

The thief's eyebrows rose, briefly. A shrug without shoulders. "I happened to be hiding near a window when you landed. I wouldn't have noticed if I hadn't heard you yelling. Your voice could split diamonds, you know that?"

Daphne rolled her eyes and smirked. "Well, when you're getting bludgeoned to death by a metal hammer, I'd like to hear what kind of sound _you _make."

"I don't get caught by Hammers," the thief muttered. "Only stupid girls do that."

He was trying to bait her, and she let him. _Go on, stoke the fire,_ she thought, feeling a tingle in her chest like spring seedlings rising out of the mud as her face flushed. _The touchier I am, the more safe we'll all be. _

"You know what? You're an ass."

"And yet you both keep following me," he replied. The smirk in his voice sent a hot shiver down her spine and made her face burn. Everything looked vaguely green.

"We didn't _follow_ you. You got involved with the Pagans because you're an idiot and took a job even Garrett wouldn't take! And out of the kindness of our hearts, we decided that we owed it to you to save your skin. Well, maybe I should say, the kindness of _my_ heart. Megan knew you'd be this way. She didn't even want to come!"

The cool glare the thief gave her made the fire sing happily, glad to be finally sinking a few punches of her own. "What were you thinking, anyway?" she continued. "I mean, besides killing a Keeper and basically signing your own death warrant, you can't even get through this place without setting the alarms off! You know who sets off alarms? Amateurs!"

Raife stopped walking, and when he spoke, his voice had to slide through his teeth and his sneer. "Oh, is that so? And what does that make you?"

Daphne spun on him. The hall did seem strangely green. Like moss and new leaves. "We wouldn't have even been caught if not for you! If the alarm hadn't been screaming for every Hammerite to jump to battle attention, we'd have slipped right under their radar!"

The thief lifted a doubtful eyebrow. "Radar?"

"Never mind!" Daphne turned her back to him. "Forgive me for using language that's beyond you!"

She could practically hear his teeth grinding themselves to dust. "I didn't have to help you out, you know," he growled. "Maybe I should have left you to rot in that cell, or to get whatever holy hell they gave her!"

"Why did you help us out? It sure wasn't because of some noble intention on your part!"

The thief didn't answer this, but they had reached the end of the hall, now. To the left rose a flight of stairs; in front of them, a heavy, multi-locked door. An empty guard station was to the right.

"What's the point of having a station if no one's at it?" she muttered, stepping inside, scanning for anything useful. Two flashbombs sat on the table. Those, at least, might come in handy.

When she emerged, Raife's was calm again, at least visibly. Daphne had to admit, she was a little impressed. He could control his face like no one she'd ever seen. One minute, scowling to kill, the next apathetic and bored, as though he were a wealthy lord at a gala where he found the company dull and the hors d'oeuvres sub-par. He may—and probably very likely did—still want to kill her, but he was hiding it well.

"We should head to the boat dock," he said, though his voice retained a little roughness around the edges. "It's the only proven way off this island, and the sooner we leave, the better."

"Fine by me. Once we get back to the city, you can skip off on your merry way! Then maybe you can hunt down more Keepers to kill, just for fun."

The bite returned to his eyes, and for a moment it looked like he was about to say something. He seemed to think better of it, though, pausing for a moment before saying slowly, "I didn't intend to kill a Keeper. I didn't know who or what he was until it was over."

Daphne turned to the stairs. "Well that's a professional way to conduct business, isn't it? Stab first, think later?" There. In her voice, she heard it—the vague echo, like two of her speaking just a breath out of unison. Her skin buzzed with energy, with strength. She almost pitied whatever Hammerite dared to get in their way.

Almost.

"Your gratitude is…stifling," the thief muttered. "I'll remember this the next time you need my help."

Daphne scoffed as she climbed the stairs, the thief lagging behind her. "Don't waste your precious mental resources. There won't be a next time."

"Builder be damned! You are just one of the most-"

But he stopped speaking when he turned the corner and nearly ran into her where she stood, momentarily shocked by the sight in front of her. The foyer opened up before them: columns, candelabras, a broad statue looming in the center with its head soaring two stories up to the glassed-in ceiling.

And on the polished tile floors, bodies. Everywhere. Nearly a dozen Hammerites lay scattered across the room, eyes open, mouths still frozen in a voiceless cry. Daphne recognized the nearest one: she had only had a glimpse of his weathered features bathed in the red light of the cell hall's torchlight as he passed, leading Megan away to torment.

But it was all so clean! There was no blood, no visible bruises or broken bones on the bodies. It was as if they were all made out of wax, lifelike but lifeless.

The thief stood beside her, frowning.

"Did you do this?" she whispered, breaking the stunned silence.

"No. And it wasn't like this when I passed through before."

Light footsteps running toward them. Raife pulled back, twisting to keep Megan out of the way, but never taking his eyes away from the direction of the sound. "Get back. There might be trouble."

Then a figure appeared in the far doorway and Daphne's heart jumped. "Otto!" she cried.

The boy looked up, mirroring her surprise in his face. "Where is he?" he asked, breathless. "Did you see him?"

"See who?"

The thief stared at the kid, mouth agape with disbelief. "_Him_? He's here, too? What did you do, bring the whole damned city with you? Who else is here?"

But although Otto opened his mouth, he didn't get a chance to say a word. He only had a second to point, and Daphne caught a flicker of dark movement behind them on the stairs. Without quite thinking, she grabbed the thief by his shirt and hauled him backward, throwing him off his balance and making him lose his grip on Megan's unconscious body. Her friend slid to the floor, and the thief started to cry out in indignation, when a blast of blue light flashed just inches over his head.

His face went ashen when he turned and saw the dark shape lunge toward him. For the first time, Daphne saw its pale mask clearly, and her heart lodged itself in her throat.

"Enforcer!" she shrieked, but the thief didn't need any clarification. Already, he had scrambled to his feet and bolted across the room, the dark shadow fast on his heels.

They blew past Otto and through the doors, and Daphne heard a crash as something heavy and metal toppled to the ground. A candle rolled into the foyer as a string of distant, panicked curses reached her ears and the sound of racing footsteps faded. The boy snapped out of his shock and turned to follow, but Daphne called out to him.

"Stay with Meg!" she shouted, and from the moist loam of her soul, she pulled on the vines and fire. Hard.

Her skin cracked and seethed and the world turned brown as the red and green entwined. She could smell dry wood and stone and steel; the hammers displayed all about her screamed of abused against the land and soil they once came from. Her reach was long and serpentine; her body wick and unbreakable.

And when she looked down at the crumpled body of her scarred friend, that wretched little sapling the wicked metal-lovers had scorched and burned, there grew within her such a wildfire of hatred she could see nothing, hear nothing, be nothing but Death.


	18. In Which Unexpected Allies Appear

**Chapter Eighteen: In Which Unexpected Allies Appear**

—_her thin, warm arms around him—too small to comfort him the way she did—told him "you're better than this"— thumping against the wall, faint cries—every night, every day the dull gleam of eyes behind paint and selling smiles—"you're too good for this"—she told him, but when alone, he ventured out, kissed hands, swallowed rings—dirty fingers, they're all the same pockets, the same coins, dirty money—the kinds of people he grew up with—first kiss, first touch—jet black hair, coal black eyes, painted lips like his mother—a strand of grey she plucked from her scalp—the curve of her flat smile, a pat on the cheek—the things he did, so young, for a kiss—he remembered the guards—cracked bones, cuts, blood, a tooth—potions, potions, he lived on to break glass, break in, break out—the flash of a candle in a dark room, and a cry—a shrill voice in the night, a warning, a signal—the flick of a blade in the candlelight, and blood—on his hands, on his face, soaking his clothes—racing heart, shaking legs, darting back into the streets—a rat in a man's skin—he couldn't do it, not for long—tried, but ate dirt, went hungry, even begged—the blood was in his dreams, in his mouth, down his throat, choking and drowning while the wide eyes screamed at him—but couldn't live the dream, had to return—tingling fingers, an open purse, the chink of proof that he'd eat again—too good to lose, too familiar—the thief was him, and he was a thief—a flashing fire arrow and strange faces, her face in the dark, for the first time—her face hovering above him, pinched, naïve—her face in the shadows, the slap of her glance—condemned him, but maybe-?—her face in the fire light, streaked with blood and tears—like his first, but not his last—her face behind bars, her cold hand tangled in his shirt, the screams in her eyes—her face, pale, drawn—the scars, not just the skin—the stitch in her brow when asleep—"you're better than this" he'd tell her—"your too good for this"—he'd say someday_

_#_

Terror was an expression he had grown accustomed to seeing on men's faces, and it washed him with chill satisfaction to see it manifest so powerfully in this pitiful Keeper-killing wretch. His footsteps were silent behind the stamping, stumbling steps of the thief; his breaths, so soft and gentle that the ragged, gasping curses ahead of him smothered them. The fool thought he could run. Thought he could hide. But the shadows were no longer his friends.

There would be no escape for him. Like the corpse of the Keeper floating in the bay, so would the thief's corpse float in the hidden caverns beneath Northermeed, bloated with salt water and pulled to pieced by eels and crabs. Death was inevitable. Every time his prey glanced backward, he saw the knowledge of it in the man's wide, fear-stricken eyes.

_Soon._

He fired another shot at the darting shadow he pursued, but the thief jerked away with a startled cry, vaulting himself down a flight of curved stairs. Mere luck. Soon, he would become weary, and his agility would deteriorate.

Through the kitchens and a crowd of obstacles with hammers. There were cries, shouts of surprise, even a hand attempting to reach out and stop him. Other men meant nothing to him. It was only the thief who interested him. A flash of blue, and no one could touch him.

Closer. Inches now. If he reached out his hand, his fingers could nearly catch hold of the thief's bound hair, could almost touch his sweat-soaked back. The kill was so close, he could smell blood in the air, taste tears on his tongue, hear the last gasp of breath in his ears.

_The end is now._

They flew through the chill storage rooms and bounded into the musty, damp catacombs, into the darkness trembling by torchlight. The thief's scrabbling footsteps on the sandy rock hissed through the caves, leading him on even when his prey managed to duck out of sight for a moment. It was too easy.

It took only one shot, one flash of blue that struck the thief square in the back, to send him crashing to the floor, slamming against the remains of a broken stone sarcophagus.

He stood over the panting, whimpering shadow. A pitiful, arrogant whelp brought to his hands and knees, his face ashen and pinched with pain.

And yet.

The thief lifted his face to him, teeth gritted, brow drawn low. "What are you waiting for?" he growled. He clutched his abdomen tight with one arm; the other trembled to hold him upright. "Get on with it, damn you!"

Beneath his mask, the enforcer smiled. If only he could use his withered, reedy voice to wipe that grimace from the thief's face. He wanted him to die gaping, shrieking, like a rat in a fire. The thief's dark eyes burned up at him, but his supporting arm trembled, fighting his own weight. Were those tears in his eyes? Was that click the sound of his chattering teeth echoing off the stone walls?

_Good enough._

He raised his weapon, saw the Keeper-murdering thief's eyes clench shut with expectation, and then-

#

Raife felt the thud more than heard it; the heavy sound hit him in the chest, made him jump and gasp. But the world didn't immediately fade to nothingness, or even to pain. Something clinked on the stone and rolled to a stop against his foot.

The thief opened his eyes one at a time, staring down at the moon-face of the enforcer's mask laying at his feet, then at the lump of black cloth on the floor where the enforcer had stood, and finally up to the dark figure slipping his blackjack back into his cloak.

"Get up."

That face-! On every street corner, in every warden's office—the face burned into the minds of every thief, fence, and scoundrel in the city-!

Slowly, Raife forced himself to his feet, leaning heavily on the toppled lid of the sarcophagus behind him. When he spoke, he hardly realized his lips had moved, or that air had escaped from his motionless lungs. "You!"

"We don't have a lot of time," the Master Thief said, his voice like the grit and stones of the street, "so I'd prefer if we kept this brief. Do you have the Eye?"

Raife shivered and shook his head. "No. I- I didn't have time. The alarms went off, everything locked down-"

"Good. I went to a lot of trouble to get it here the first time. I don't like having to repeat myself." The Master Thief glanced back behind him, his eyes narrowing. "There's a boat waiting. Bring your friends to the windward side of the island in a half hour. I'll have it come around close, but only once. If you're not there, I'm leaving without you."

Raife stared at the man he had seen so often portrayed in words and in pictures, but never in the flesh. He looked older than the stories of his feats made him seem; there was grey in the short hair at his temples. But the hard lines of his face, the silver scar cut across the brow housing his shining mechanical eye, the cynical snap of the other: it was without a doubt the Master Thief. The Master Thief. Here.

"Why?" The word sounded so adoring, so awed, it made Raife grimace inwardly. He coughed, and this time, when he spoke, he kept his voice low, casual. Like speaking to an equal. "Why are you doing this? Why help me?"

The Master Thief eyed him in silence for a moment, and then said, "I owed a belated favor to a friend. Don't get used to it. I've got better things to do than waste my time saving the skins of amateurs."

Raife glanced down, biting back an indignant scoff. Amateurs! The little girls, maybe, but him? He was a professional.

"Here." The Master Thief reached into his cloak, and Raife braced himself for a quick dagger in the chest. But instead of a knife, the thief held out a folded piece of parchment. "Basso's too soft-hearted for his own good."

Raife took the piece of paper when the thief shook it at him, but Garrett held it fast, refusing to let it go too easily. "A piece of advice," the Master Thief added. "In the future, don't pick up a job I wouldn't take. If I turn down a small fortune, there's always a good reason."

Then he let go of the note. Raife folded back the edge of the paper and frowned at the scribbled words. "What is this?" he asked, but when he looked up, he was alone.

* * *

There wasn't much good Sherry could credit the Hammerites with, but she couldn't deny their craftsmanship. They built things to last.

For what felt like days since Brother Farrus left her here in the damp, dark depths of the cathedral, she had scoured her cell for weaknesses and had come up with nothing. No bars wiggled a little too freely, no part of the stone walls crumbled, and worst of all, no one—especially not any young, impressionable Hammerites—had come within earshot. Any one of these could have provided her with a neat, quick escape, and upon other occasions in other cells, had done so.

But the Hammerites weren't taking any chances on her this time, and it was with slow, creeping dread, as she sat in her cell after yet another failed search, that she realized she would die here. Ever since promising Daphne that she would find Gus, Sherry had avoided thinking about all the myriad ways she could lose her life, but here—in the dark, alone—the thoughts returned and left her shaking.

She had never deluded herself into thinking she would die of old age—the image of herself as an old woman made the bile rise in the back of her throat—but she had always assumed she would die dramatically at the hands of a jealous lover, or as a casualty of an arrest gone bad. What horrified her now was the thought that the Hammerites might just leave her to rot in the belly of their compound. That she would just sit helplessly and waste away—maybe for weeks, maybe for years—until she died dirty, sick, and alone held none of that tragic charm which had made death seem like such a natural—even appealing—ending to her short life.

And all for a stupid robot!

She cursed herself liberally in the darkness, her own whispers grating and harsh as they echoed off the thick walls. "Even if I'd found him, what good would that do?" she asked aloud. "It's all that stupid girl's fault! If she hadn't shown up when she did, we'd never have left Gus alone in the first place, and none of this would have happened!"

The thought of Megan's smirking, condescending face made her almost scream in anger. She struck her fist on the stone floor and winced at the impact. The pain sapped some of her frustration, but it brought tears to her eyes, which was no better. Cradling her throbbing wrist in her lap, Sherry fought back the urge to cry. If she was going to die here, she damn well wasn't going to look like a whimpering little girl.

Besides, someone would come for her. Daphne would be in a panic when she didn't show up at their meeting place, and would insist on searching for her.

But how would she find her? The trail that had led Sherry to the cathedral was barely intact when she found it. What would it be in a few days? And that was if that blasted Megan even allowed them to go look for her. Sherry scowled, practically hearing Megan's voice say in her ears, "She's probably just off sulking, and even if she's not, she can't expect us to waste all that time to go look for her. We have to get back home!"

Home, home, home! Sherry scoffed, and the walls scoffed back. She had risked her life for a pair of loonies, and for what? What would she get out of it? Payment?

She would have laughed if she weren't so horribly trapped in the whole mess. And she had so willingly gone along with them! They might be crazy, but she was a fool. She and that idiot Raife and that cocky little boy and that old jailbird who tagged along with Megan. They were all fools to get caught up in this.

A little voice in the back of her mind whispered that the last week had been more exciting than anything she had experienced in her life before Daphne showed up, but that only made her angrier. "I don't care if it was fun for a while!" she said to herself. "All that's over now, and I'm going to die here with less than nothing!"

She jumped at the sudden squeal of a door opening. Light flooded the hallway, blinding her. For one brief moment, her heart leapt at the thought that it might be Daphne—even Megan!—coming to save her, but the scuffling boots and the clank of armor crushed that hope before her eyes even adjusted enough to see the troop of Hammerites tromping past.

Among them, she thought she saw Brother Prolan, his shadowed expression grim as he shoved the surrounded prisoner forward with a grunt. As they moved a little way down the hall beyond her cell, Sherry slowly shifted closer to the back wall, watching the procession cautiously. They stopped abruptly near the end of the passage, and a cell door squeaked in protest as it was thrown open. The dull thud of a body being thrown to the floor made Sherry wince.

"Dost thou think the Hammer wilt tire of torturing thee, wretch?" It was unmistakably Prolan who spoke. "Dost thou think He shalt grow bored of thine insolence and release thee?"

The weak voice which replied had the accent of a nobleman. "No. I know too well what your kind is capable of."

Another thud and a groan.

"One day He shalt let me kill thee, Abomination, and upon mine word, I promise I wilt enjoy sending thy heathen soul into the Builder's all-consuming fire. Close this door!"

The cell door crashed shut and Sherry listened to the jingle of chains and the scraping of a key turning in the lock. Then the shadowed figures began moving past her cell again. She held her breath and looked away, hoping they would pass by quietly. But the last among them slowed and lingered at her cell.

"How dost thee like thy quarters, spy?" The voice was softer, but again Prolan's.

Sherry bit her tongue and when she looked at him, she stared past him, through him. He would not see her fear.

Prolan smirked. "Silence now, I see. Such a change from all the earlier chatter. Art thou afraid of me?"

She shifted her gaze straight into his eyes, hoping it burned as intensely as the furious fire she felt inside. If it did, Prolan seemed oblivious.

"Thou shouldst be," he said, almost whispering as his eyes touched her from head to toe. "I would have had thee killed on the spot, but the Hammer hates waste. I can see now how undoubtedly correct He was to spare thee. Even thou, a filthy wretch, art made by the Builder's own, skilled hand."

Sherry's face burned, and her tongue moved before she could stop herself. A spray of spit misted Prolan's face, and he drew back with a hiss. He drew his sleeve across his cheeks, scowling at her. If there had been any way to pull back further from him, to merge into the walls themselves, Sherry would have. She wanted to turned herself inside out to escape that look.

When he reached into his pocket, her knees started wobbling. Oh Builder, what if he had a key? What if he could get inside, get past the bars, get to her? She was no fool—she'd seen that raging, starving look in men's eyes before. Perhaps she would die at a man's jealous hands after all.

But instead of a key, Prolan pulled out a small golden hammer. Before she even realized what he was doing, he threw it at her. She winced, bracing for the strike, but it stuck the wall by her leg with a heavy clink and fell to the floor.

His unblinking eyes never left her. "Beg for mercy from the Builder," he said hoarsely. The hunch that had crept into his back straightened and he lifted his nose at her. "Beg for your life, Heathen, and perhaps we will grant you a purification before you die."

Purification. She had witnessed one of those as a child: the condemned man had been forced to stick his hands into a blazing fire until only the bones were left, all to spare his eternal soul before the Hammerites hung him. Her stomach turned and her body betrayed her as it started to tremble.

Prolan's smirk was long gone, replaced by glittering, hard eyes. Without another word, he turned and swept away, back up the stairs toward the only source of light, slamming the door behind him. The dungeon fell once more into impenetrable darkness.

Sherry sank to the floor, submitting at last to the jarring shivers she had fought so hard to keep under control. That look! It made her skin feel greasy. She pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes, trying to block out Prolan's face. She wasn't certain what had been worse: the lust in his eyes or the way he could turn it off, like blowing out a candle. Any thought that escape lay in finding his favor was futile. He would use her as easily as he would throw her into the fires; he would regret nothing.

She'd never thought a man could be truly evil—stupid and selfish, yes—but evil was something she wrote off as a way for the religious to feel more important than the people around them. But Prolan-!

She wasn't sure when she started crying. She was only aware of the soft voice calling to her gently. "Don't cry."

She wiped the tears from her cheek and stoked up as much revulsion and fury as she could to keep the rest at bay. It had always worked before, but this time she found it as much of an internal battle as letting a drunk City Guard touch her to avoid arrest.

"I wasn't crying," she said, her voice betraying her with a waver.

She couldn't see him—her eyes hadn't adjusted again to the dark—but she could hear the hiss of someone raising themselves from the stone floor. A chain clinked. "I'm sorry. I meant no offense."

A scoff escaped her throat and surprised her. How long had it been since a man apologized to her so sincerely? "You can't offend me," she said, wiping her cheeks to catch the last renegade trickles. "I doubt anyone can."

"That Hammer could."

Sherry shifted. Prolan's face was in her mind again, hungry one moment; cold the next. "Who are you?" she asked. "Why are you here?"

"By asking that question, you imply that the Hammers have a rational reason to imprison anyone they choose," he said. "I'm down here for the same reason anyone is: they're afraid of me. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised. Priests of the Trickster rarely make many friends in the Hammerite cities."

The word hit her in the stomach like a copper mallet. A Trickster priest! Of all the dungeon mates, he had to be a Pagan priest!

She shivered, remembering the woods not far from here, and the woman who had captured her and Daphne. Holy Builder, what was worse? Hammer "purifications" or Pagan magic? Her skin crawled imagining green skin and screeching multi-tone voices. Vines. Blood. The Pagans were not shy of blood. Blood, death, gnashing teeth…

"What is your name?" the priest asked. His voice was young, but then, she supposed the Trickster could give youth to his priests and priestesses if it amused him. He could be a hundred years old, and still have a voice like that. Innocent. Hopeful. "What do the mallet-heads want with you?"

_To kill me, to maim me, what don't they want to do?_ Sherry wrapped her arms around her shoulders and fought back a shiver. "I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. I was trying to help a friend, but-"

"But they stopped you." His voice was so soft, so comforting. How could a Pagan priest have a voice like that? Priests resided over living sacrifices, ate still-beating hearts, commanded armies of hideous monsters…. "And now you fear for your life."

The darkness had settled into her eyes, and she could begin to make out the priest's shadowed shape as he leaned against the bars of his cell, his head tilted back. He had a fine, youthful profile, but much more than that, she couldn't determine.

"You needn't fear them," he said. "If they come for you, I won't let them harm you."

In her thoughts, she asked him, _How? What could you do to stop them?_ But she didn't want to know the answer. She didn't want him to show her what he could do if he wanted to. "Why don't you escape?" she asked. "Why do you let them beat you?"

She was startled by his pleasant chuckle. "It is a test of my patience that I must wait for the time being. But soon, my people will come for me, and they will bring with them something that will give me great power. Then I will watch this place burn; I will watch these metal-lusting corpses burn."

Her shoulders ached where her fingernails dug into her skin.

"But you need not be afraid, Little Sprout." _Oh, that name! _It made her stomach twist like tangleweed. "It is the Hammers who have earned our wrath; not you. These mallet-heads condemn us for our traditions and rituals, but they are consumed by a wicked bloodlust as ravenous as wolves in a barren forest. Anything you could have done to offend them could only be considered a boon by the Trickster."

_Wonderful. _

Why hadn't she demanded to go with Daphne? At least she could have gotten them out of this place. But there was no point in thinking like that now. She had only what was here with her in the dungeon, and she would have to make it work if she wanted to get out alive, or at least last long enough for someone to come rescue her.

"Thank you," she said. "If we have to be locked up, I'm glad it's with you." She didn't speak in the voice she used for seduction; she spoke as innocently as she could without sounding false.

She heard the priest chuckle softly, and when she sat back, she felt the cold metal of the tiny copper hammer under her palm. Quietly, she picked it up and put it in her pocket. _Just in case._

* * *

There was an old saying among the grey-beards in Black Alley: _A smart man never turns his back on Luck._ Until this mission, Raife had always assumed the old codgers were gloating over their success when he or another young thief limped into the bar after a particularly bad thrashing from the City Guard. Now—as he crouched, pinned to a narrow pocket of shadow by a troop of Hammerites searching the tunnels surrounding him-he thought he finally understood the phrase. The smirks, the lifted eyebrows, the low whistles, and slow shake of the head? Those old crooks had been sympathizing. _Never trust Luck_, they meant. Luck was nothing but a dirty cheat, and Its bad tempers could kill you.

Raife wasn't sure what offense he'd perpetrated against Luck, but it must have been a nasty one for all the bad turns that kept coming his way, and he was getting tired of it. He had three things to do before catching that boat the Master Thief had mentioned, and every second he wasted hiding while the Hammerites trolled the halls for him was another strike against the possibility of success. And he'd come too far, and been through too much to get himself knifed by an angry pagan just because he failed to accomplish the little task they'd set out for him.

He hadn't exactly lied to the Master Thief. He _hadn't_ had the Eye on him when the damned Enforcer nearly annihilated him. He hadn't had it when he'd released the girls from their cells. He hadn't had it for more than ten seconds as he slunk from the observatory tower when the alarms went off, despite having been able to break open the safe without so much as a click to alert the patrolling Hammerites. How the alarm went off, he couldn't say, and didn't care. Perhaps the Keeper's masked dog had set it off to add to the confusion. Perhaps some daft Hammerite on patrol had tripped a switch.

But however it had been set off, the scream of the alarm had forced him think on his feet. It would be bad enough to get caught with his pockets full of tithes and the few other choice items he'd let his nimble fingers slip across. Getting caught with the Trickster's Eye, though… Well, that wasn't something he was stupid enough to risk. No purification, no imprisonment, no hope: just a few quick downward blows, and his skull would be a pulpy bone, brain, and blood pudding smeared across the compound's hallowed floors.

No, he'd learned a lot from his little entrapment in the ocean cave. Amateurs take risks they could avoid. He was a professional. Caution, always caution. Plan ahead, then plan a backup.

He was glad now, as a shadow moved across his hiding spot and on down the hall, slowly, methodically searching for him, for the foresight. When the Hammerite's back disappeared around the corner, the thief slipped out of the shadows and dodged a few yards to another pocket of darkness, where he crouched and waited, listening for the next set of slow, pacing steps to prowl past.

Three things, and then he'd be free of this cursed island, and if it sank into the sea behind him, so much the better. First: He had to get out of this mess and back up to the main floors. There, he'd be able to move quickly without detection to meet his second objective: retrieve the Eye from where he'd stashed it in the library. It wasn't a brilliant hiding spot, shoved behind a few books, but it had worked at the time. It also meant it'd be easy to slip out again, provided the Hammers were functioning under the assumption that whoever took the Eye still had it.

And lastly, he had to get those stupid girls off the island with him. He'd be damned if he'd give them another thing to hold over his head as a debt when he'd just about cleared the score. Not that he could quite remember who owed whom, now, but better to have them in his debt than he in theirs. Favors were a commodity a professional thief could learn to appreciate.

_All this to be done within the next half-hour,_ the thief thought with a tight smirk. The cards were stacked, to be sure, but unlike the happy citizens sleeping in warm beds behind locked doors, he'd never been taught to believe that life was—on the whole—fair.

There were five patrolling zealots left in the caves, as far as sound alone could determine, though the echoing and scuffling of feet made it hard to be sure. Already two had left, dragging the unconscious Enforcer behind them, and Raife didn't envy the youth his next few days of life. If there were days left. Maybe hours was more appropriate. But perhaps now the Keepers could focus their frustrations on the Builder's men and—if his luck could change—forget about his little indiscretion for a while.

That is, if he could escape from the catacombs with most of his skin intact.

He was just contemplating his next evasive maneuver when a small sound caught his attention. In the silence between each echoing footstep, behind the crackling of a nearby torch and the dripping of water onto the sarcophagus beside him, he began to hear a low rumbling. It was very soft, still—distant—but there was something in it that made him hesitate to move again too soon until he could identify it. Perhaps it was thunder? Or waves crashing far overhead? Maybe. But with each passing moment, it seemed to be drawing nearer.

There! Was that a shout? A clatter of armor? A Hammerite not far from him stopped mid-stride and tilted his head toward the sound. So, he wasn't the only one who had heard it.

"Brother Norrin?" His booming voice thundered through the catacombs. "Didst thou hear-?"

But before he could finish his sentence, the walls shuddered so violently that the torches toppled from their wall mounts and sputtered out on the wet ground. Those searching for him cried out, but the thief—now drenched in darkness—leapt from his hiding spot and scrambled forward.

He might have made the next hall if he hadn't crashed into a stumbling Hammerite who had been waiting just around the corner. The armored man shouted when the shadow barreled into him, but had enough sense to clamp his hands down on it before it slipped by him.

Raife twisted under the gauntleted grip as he snatched a knife from his belt, but the hands in the darkness slammed him up against the wall, knocking the wind from his chest and the weapon from his hand.

"Thou art caught, knave!" his captor shouted into his face, as though sightlessness implied deafness as well.

But just as the grip around his throat tightened, the walls trembled again, and he felt the grit of dust showering his shoulders from the rocks above. Flecks got in his eyes, and made his captor cough and sneeze. It was just enough to loosen the hold, and Raife dropped to the floor, ignoring the rip of his shirt or the tinkling of coins on stone as they evacuated his pockets. He lunged to the side, knocking the Hammerite from his feet. Gravel slid beneath him, making his steps unsteady as he dodged forward, arms outstretched to catch the walls that seemed to materialize just where he thought they wouldn't be.

Then, ahead-! A light! The luminance fluttered and heat seemed to pour from the throat of the hall. Close to him, armor crashed, voices trembled, shouted, and cursed amidst the crackling of what sounded like a bonfire and soft, wet things striking less forgiving stone.

"By the Builder!"

The high pitched shriek sliced through the light and darkness and stopped Raife in his tracks. A body flew from the lighted hall and crashed into the stone not inches from where he stood. The Hammerite slumped dead against the ground as the sharpened vine withdrew from his mangled chest.

That was when the pit of his stomach dropped.

_Pagans. _

They couldn't be after him already. He hadn't even had time to finish the mission, let alone fail at it, but there could be no doubt. Whatever kind of pagan beast it was, it was nearer now, inches around the corner, and its shadow danced across the corpse practically laying at his feet.

"_Raife!_" the multi-tined voice shrieked, and then it stepped forward and he could see it.

Through the hazy noise of whispering vines slithering along the floor, the plant woman's beady eyes paralyzed him. Her green skin undulated, split at her wrists like outgrown bark; he could see the roots of the vines sliding beneath her skin, up her arms, up her neck, their thin tendrils writhing at the edges of her cheeks. He might have vomited if that piercing gaze hadn't felt as if it were evaporating every ounce of liquid from his body, leeching him dry.

It was all he could do to grab a blade from his belt and strike.


	19. In Which Northermeed Is Left Behind

_Motherplant dips she roots deep into mud land waters, her drinksies the sweety necture of Nature, her suck the gummy blood of rotting manflesh, her crushes bone and rock in she viney-grasp. Sings to her them whirring flies, them seething worms in bloaty flesh—dinner and home together. She be the voice of rustling red leaves, the drippy pit-pat of sticky sap from thick flower lips. She seeds, them basks in odor of decay and death, soaks up tasty blood, dissolves them flies and worms and frogs and birds. Motherplant she givesies them all, swollen pods ripe with life._

_ When time is right, splits Motherplant she body, vomits she little seeds onto rotting soil in burst of sticky blood sap. Them birds, them worms, them flies, them frogs: seedlings be a deadly treat. Motherplant she carcass will choke them little seeds, blot out Fathersun, the Trickster's Eye, but them kindly fleshy hands, takes them the seeds, ignores them the itchy burn of Motherplant she sap, suffers them the poison in them blood. Place them the seeds in Fathersun's glare, burns them the seeds in Trickster's gaze. Be hardened, be dried, all for safety. Such little seeds, them be so weak. Them be so lonely._

_ Mixies them the fleshy hands with brothers, sisters, hides them the little seeds in grain and water and nutrients—perhaps drop of manflesh blood?—bakes them in warm, cozy cocoon. Gnashes teeth, burns acid—Punishment! The seeds them cry. Punishment! Suffer them the Trickster's test, but finds them then in dark, warm place. Finds them then a home to grow in, blood to saver—so much! A flood of tasty blood. Tangles them roots with muscles and bone; clings them to pulsing heart: whum, whum, whum. _

_ Better than Motherplant, this dark, warm womanflesh place. When death she finds, with nourishing flesh, them will becomes them own Motherplant. But now, grows them strong, grows them long, and gives them strength to Motherhost, to fleshy body. When angry becomes she, Oh! Angry becomes them too. Lookies them through she eyes. Reachies them through she hands. Cries them, shrieking, "Kills we will, kills for you, mother!" _

_ And lets them she does. Oh, how she lets them._

_#_

The manfools burned and died. Where they ran, she followd; where they hid like rats, she found them, gripped them, crushed them. Their hallowed curses grew to shrieks of mortal terror as their bones shattered and their organs burst. They were nothing to her; not even beasts. Beast, at least, had wild sense and instinctive humility; these manfools had only arrogance. Arrogance is death. They try to protect their fleshy bodies with sheets of pounded metal and rings of chain. Bound, encased, controlled. They have no wisdom, no comprehension of the vast darkness licking at their heels.

_Run fleshy-fools,_ she thought. _Run on your little legs of bone and meat. See how far they get you._

Fire from toppled candles had set the place ablaze. It chewed on the carpets, crawled up the tapestries, nibbled at the clothes and then the bodies of the dead she left in her wake. It burned, and filled the air with smoke that made the lungs of the manfools wheeze and cough, made their watery eyes dart and sting. She could feel the air shift when they moved, could sense the vibrations of their hesitant footsteps through the soles of her feet. The stones of the cathedral echoed every gasp, every scuffling boot; the wood and rock and sand the manfools had contorted to build their fortress revolted from their tormenters and turned against them to guide her to her prey.

_"Sings the Trickster, him voice from deep and shifting rock: Death be upon you! Bow down and behold your oblivion!"_ Her voice was the voice of every insect in the forest, echoed by the whispering bass of the snakes and writhing worms that lived in the soil.

The walls, the fire, the smoke: the world was green—dark, death green.

_Kills them,_ the multitude shrieked in her mind. _Kills them all! Feeds them flesh to toothy fish, to snapping bird, to creeping crab! Lets the whole world feast upon them!_

Their eager squeals made her smile. But behind the cacophony of their shrill voices, there was one—a quiet, fleshy voice—whispering, "_Stop. Please stop! Please, please, please, let me stop!"_

Such a strange voice, it was, like a rippled reflection in a forest pool, like the rush of wind through grass and canopy. There was a familiarity about it she couldn't place. Where, where did it come from? Like mother, like daughter, like sister—the softness made her pause, made her listen to it again through all the other, mindless voices who only mirrored her thoughts. That one, that whisper: _Who, who who?_ cried the night owl of her deepest consciousness. _Who, who, who is that?_

_"This isn't me," _the voice whispered, breaking as if with tears. _"I don't want this. I'm not like this. I have to stop!"_

The pungent smoke made her eyes suddenly ache; the hissing fires made the air shiver and boil.

_Kills the manfools, the fleshy-fools!_ The multitude of voices swarmed in her mind. _Hunts thems, chase thems, track thems down. Eat them squishy hearts! Drinks them sticky blood!_

That sounded right, felt right. Her skin crackled in the heat, and tendrils of her hair writhed and sizzled as the tips snagged sparks from the fire. _And yet…_ That still, quiet voice in the back of her thoughts. Why was the sound of that voice so compelling? Why did her ears recognize it so well?

The manfools fled before her, their armor clattering, their prayers wavering, their screams feeding her rage. Her vines slithered across the floors and like serpents, they struck, tangled, constricted their prey. She stooped beside one ensnared Hammerite and watched his wide eyes bulge from his skull as his face turned red, then purple, then blue. The thorns bit into his skin, and the blood pumped from the tiny fissures with each hiccupping beat of his dying heart.

_Too easy, too clean for the likes of him._ Her fingertips sharpened and she caught his jaw in her hand, digging her claws into his cheeks.

He had no strength to scream when she plucked his eyes from their sockets, but his lips sputtered, sprinkled her green skin with his blood. He twitched violently, and then fell still. She turned the two eyes to look at her: pale blue, almost grey, irises in fields of red. _I should have taken them sooner,_ she thought.

The eyes sizzled and hissed when she tossed them into the fire creeping along the carpets fibers, and then with a pop, they were gone.

She stood and followed the sounds of panic down a flight of stone steps into the damp darkness of the catacombs.

It was cooler here, and moist—like the soil beneath tree roots. The musty odor of dried bones and dusty flesh drifted in the corners near the ceiling, flushed there by a steady stream of cold, smoky air that stung her nostrils. Far ahead, she could see a torch or two sputtering in the darkness, their wavering light barely touching the deep shadows around them.

_Like rats, they scurry to dark places, as though darkness will hide them._ She chuckled at the manfools, at their desperation. _No place to go. No place to hide. Says the Trickster: Darkness be my Brother, Night my Sister, and Death my Dearest Friend._

Her vines crawled the floors, the walls, the ceiling, snuffing out the torches with their thick, green bodies as she descended. Up ahead, there was a bend in the hall where no light but the light from far behind her cast a glow. Her shadow flickered on the stone.

There: from the muffled sounds, a sharp crash and a shout. That voice, did she know it?

_"Raife!_" The quiet voice was louder now, it seemed. _"It's him! Help him!"_

Help? She wasn't sure. She could nearly taste them, the manfools, and there was blood—she could smell that. Behind her, she heard footsteps and a bellow of, "By the Builder!"

Twisting, she saw one of the armored fools, already limping from an earlier encounter, lift his mallet as if to swing it towards her. But he was too slow. A bolt of vines shot from her arm and speared him through the chest, piercing his armor front to back. Her skin tingled with the sticky smears of his blood. The mallet fell from his grasp, and his trembling hands reached down as if to touch the vines pulsing in his torso.

She laughed at his probing fingers, at the disbelief on his dying face, and then hurled him to the end of the hall. He crashed against the stones and dropped to the floor.

Heat: she could feel it. A body lurking around the corner. Alive. Waiting.

_Foolish manbeast,_ she thought as she approached. _Does he think he can stop me when all the others have failed?_

When she turned the corner, she saw only a pair of dark eyes and a flicker of a blade before it slashed across her cheek.

_Pain!_ the minions shrieked within her, and when the knife slashed out at her again, she twisted out of the way and caught the manfool in her viney grasp. In seconds, he was bound head to foot and fell to the ground. She squeezed him tighter, listening as he strained for breath as she constricted his chest, clenched his throat.

"_Pitiful manfool,"_ she hissed at his wide eyes and gritted teeth. She lifted a hand to touch the trickle of sap oozing from the cut on her cheek. "_For this, I'll kill you slowly._"

She smiled, breathing the odor of smoke and blood and decay. Slowly, slowly, she lengthened the thorns of her vines, listened to him gasp and then scream in pain as they pierced skin and muscle, stabbed to the bone. But as she stood watching, she felt a tight, cold knot in her chest like a smooth stone soaked in a mountain brook. The thorns sank deeper as the man thrashed. He would tear his organs apart that way. She tutted his foolishness, but the cold pit inside her grew, making it harder to breathe and muted the voices of the minions so that all she could hear was that still voice, no longer quiet but shrieking in her ears, "_Stop it! STOP IT! You're killing him!" _

A tremendous shiver wracked her, made her vines wither, and her vision sharpen. The green of the world fled in a rush, leaving her exposed and cold as if winter had just fallen.

_ No!_ cried the minions, but their voices were drifting away, falling asleep, hibernating. So quiet, so cold. She felt the weariness drawing over her. The world spun.

The vines around the man hardened and turned brittle, so brittle he could have shattered them if he'd moved. But he had calmed suddenly, and now lay very still.

Cold. Like frost. Like the time of deepest sleep. It made her ache from within, made her skin prickle. Her hands were so small, shrunken by the cold. From her own throat, she heard the familiar voice croak, "Raife!"

How strange, feeling that voice use her lips, her tongue, hearing it come from her throat. Whose voice? But she was too weary to wonder much, too tired to stay awake…

Daphne dropped to her knees beside the thief and began tearing at the thorny vines, ignoring the pain as they bit and scratched at her palms. The longest of the spines came free without much struggle, though the wounds they left behind were deep and leaked blood at an alarming rate.

"Don't die on me!" Daphne cried. "Please, please, please don't die on me, Raife! I'm so sorry! Please! You have to live!"

When the vines were free, she leaned her ear close to his mouth, listening for any sign of breath. For a long second, she heard nothing. And then—there! A shivering gasp, too soft and shallow to be healthy, but at least a breath! Teeth clicked as the thief forced himself to swallow and cracked his eyes open.

"You?" he croaked, squinting at her. "Where-?" His voice caught in his throat, forcing him to swallow again, wincing. "Where's the pagan?"

She could feel blood oozing from the cut across her cheek. She fought the urge to touch it. "Gone. She's gone. But we need to get you out of here. Can you stand?"

It nearly sounded as if he'd scoffed, but there was so little air in it, she couldn't be sure. The cold breath of the catacombs made her shiver, and turned the film of sweat on her skin clammy. "I'll help you," she whispered. "Give me your arm."

"Just-! Don't-!"

The thief gritted his teeth and choked back a groan as she helped him to his unsteady feet. She hadn't realized how heavy he was until she gripped his arm across her shoulders and he leaned on her, unable to support himself much on his own legs. His face was ashen and tight, and he breathed heavily through his nose.

They stumbled up the stairs, but it was slow going, and the smoke grew thicker as they made their way to the floor above. The carpets were still smoldering, and the stench of burning flesh made it difficult to breathe. But no one approached them; there was no one alive to be seen. They tripped over a prone Hammerite in the hall, breaking away some of the brittle vines still twisted around him. His empty eye sockets watched her as they stepped around him. She fought back a shudder and the rising bile in the back of her throat.

_Never again,_ she thought, turning her back on the eyeless gaze. _Never again. I won't let it happen again. I'll do whatever it takes._

In the central cathedral, the walls opened up and the air cleared, but the vision of chaos was unmatched. Bodies in various positions of violent collapse lay scattered across the blood-smeared stone floor, draped over the orderly pews, discarded in the aisles. Chips from shattered tiles crunched under their unsteady step as they halted. Stared. Beside her, she heard the thief breathe a curse.

"And I thought I was having a bad day," he muttered through his teeth.

Daphne bit her lip. The heat inside her was still there, slowly dying down but present, and active. It wouldn't take much to draw on it again, to lose herself to the green. It made her stomach lurch. Pushing the thief away, she stumbled a few steps forward and threw up. It wasn't much, but it left a hot, acid taste in her mouth that made her heave again, though nothing came up. She shivered and wiped her mouth with the hem of her shirt, trying not to look at the contorted face of a dead Hammerite not six feet from where she crouched. Coughing to clear her throat, she stood, though the ground felt as if it were trembling beneath her.

The thief sat where she'd dropped him, propped up into a recline by one unstable looking arm. His chin rested on his chest, and for a moment she thought he had fallen asleep. But as she approached, he cracked open one eye and said, "You okay?"

Daphne nodded weakly, then helped him back to his feet. "I think Otto's got a health potion, or maybe a glyph or something that can help you. Then we can figure out how to get out of here."

"Wait." The thief stumbled to a stop, drawing her up short before her next step. His free hand patted down his chest to the side of his belt from which he withdrew a folded sheet of paper. "Boat," he croaked. "Off windward." When she took the sheet, he grimaced and coughed. "I need to sit again."

She barely had time to catch him before he slipped toward the floor and collapsed. His face had grown steadily paler, and his clothes were slick with blood. Sweat beaded on his brow and dripped into his eyes.

"Raife," she said, grabbing his shirt collar. "Raife. Look at me."

He rolled his dark eyes toward her. She could see the outline of his skull beneath his skin.

Her grip tightened, and her fingernails squeaked on the blood-soaked fabric. "You can't die on me. Ok? You can't."

His thin lips twisted into a curve that was almost a smirk. "Don't…" He coughed. Cleared his throat. "Don't tell me what to do."

Daphne gritted her teeth to fight back the ripples trying to obscure her vision. The coals in her chest sparked. "You have to live. If not for me, live for Megan, okay? She'll kill me if you die because of me."

The thief's gaze lost its focus and rolled to stare out across the cathedral floor. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and quiet. "I doubt it."

The words made him cough again, a deep, wet cough that bubbled in his throat, making him gasp for air through his nostrils and clamped teeth. She hadn't noticed the smudge of blood at the corner of his mouth before.

_He's dying!_ She thought, and the embers inside her went out with a gust of cold air.

"You can't die!" she cried. "Please, please—you just can't! She loves you! You know that, don't you? She'll never say it out loud, but she'd head over heels—Raife!"

The thief was watching her again, eyes half-lidded, but she couldn't tell if he really saw her anymore.

She glanced toward the far double doors, the ones leading to the main hall in which maybe Otto was still hiding with Meg. He had to know something that could help, didn't he? Glyphs were powerful. Maybe, _maybe-_!

"Don't you dare die on me! I'm coming back with help!"

Was that a nod from him, or had his head just rolled back against the stone? There was no time to check, no time to waste. She bolted for the doors. In all her life, she had never run so fast. In moments, she threw the doors open wide and slid to a stop on the polished tiles, her gasps echoing up to the glass ceiling far overhead.

"Otto!" she shrieked. What if he was hiding? What if he wasn't there? What if he'd taken Meg somewhere safer? "Otto! _Help!_"

From behind the tall stone planter of trees along the wall, she saw his shaggy head appear. She didn't wait for him to speak, didn't hesitate for a moment. She ran to him, grabbed his skinny arm, and dragged him back to the cathedral.

Raife lay very still on the floor, and his eyes were closed.

"Do something, _do something!"_ Daphne cried. "Shit, shit, _shit_! I killed him, Otto. I couldn't- I didn't know how to stop!"

"Stop shouting," Otto said with infuriating calm, kneeling beside the thief. He put his hand on Raife's neck, feeling for a pulse. "He's still alive, for now." He breathed out a long, heavy breath, and shook his head. "You really messed him up."

Daphne pressed her hands over her mouth and fought back the flash of tears. Megan would kill her. Or worse: she wouldn't. She'd just look at her, and it'd be obvious that the friendship was dying in her eyes. Daphne choked back a sob. _Meg was right! We should have left him alone. At least if he'd died, it would have been on his own head. But this…_ He couldn't die like this. Not because of her. Not because she couldn't control herself.

Otto and Raife had become just a smudge of dark colored shapes in front of her. She could see rough movements, knew Otto was stooping over the thief. She could hear fabric being shifted, could hear feet and knees sliding on the stone floor. Then, she heard a low, steady whisper speaking words she didn't understand, but recognized somehow. A flash of blue light made her jump and squeeze her eyes shut, releasing the little walls of water down her cheeks.

When she opened them again, she saw a shimmering glyph fading into Raife's bare chest, and as it dissipated, the gashes and deep punctures seemed to close themselves up a little. The thief sighed as the color returned to his face.

"It's no healing potion," Otto said to him. "You'll need something stronger before you can stand."

The thief groaned, but when he spoke, his voice sounded weak but steady. "Thanks, kid."

Otto looked up at her, then. "There might be some health potions around. Maybe one of these dead guys have one on their belt. We'll probably only need one to get him mobile."

It was a relief to have something productive to put her mind to, even if it was scavenging the Hammerite corpses littering the room. Hammerites _she_ had killed. At first, she tried not to look at their faces, but then after plucking one of the small golden flasks from the hand of a young acolyte, she felt a twinge that perhaps she ought to remember them. There wasn't time to study them all, and though she tried, she found that the memory of each face faded the moment she moved to another corpse.

A pair of potions closed up all of Raife's wounds and got him back on his feet, healthy and irritable as ever. He picked at his clothes—or more, at the holes in his clothes—and started grumbling a steady stream of profanities under his breath the likes of which would have singed the ear hair of a loyal Hammerite, if any had been alive to hear them.

Megan lay behind the planters in the main hall, sleeping peacefully, but an unnatural stillness held her, as if she were made of wax or plastic. Together, she and Otto helped hoist her up so that the thief could lift her free. She was like a broken marionette in his arms, and it took some shifting on his part to keep her head propped up against his shoulder rather than falling back at what looked like an uncomfortable angle. Then he pointed toward the front doors with his chin.

"We need to get to the windward beach, now," he snapped. "If the boat hasn't left yet, we might well get off this damned island."

The doors were thick, heavy wood, meant to keep out both the sea during its worst furies and likely marauders as well, and it took all of them to shift one open enough to slip outside. Long, flat stone steps descended in a fan sweep to the gravel shore, and far to the east, the dark horizon had taken on the first glimmer of dawn. The ocean hissed across the rocks; the gravel crunched beneath Daphne's feet as she walked to the foam and squinted out across the waters.

"Where's the ship?" she asked. The chill wind stole the words from her tongue with its briny teeth and carried them away into the surf. The cut on her cheek burned to the bone in the salty air. "There's nothing out there."

Behind her, on the last step before the beach, Raife had stooped to lower Megan to the smooth stone. "The ship is circling… I hope." When he stood, he started back up toward the door.

At first, she thought he might be planning to close it behind them, but instead, he slipped back inside.

"Hey!" she shouted. When he didn't reply or reappear, she followed him. He was just disappearing up a flight of stairs in the main hall when she caught up with him. "Where are you going?"

The thief nearly jumped at her sudden voice behind him, and if she'd doubted his displeasure at being followed by that alone, his scowl would have made it obvious.

"Last minute business, all right? I won't be gone long."

"I'll come with you."

A muscle at the corner of his jaw twitched. Then he scoffed and shrugged, the scowl slipping. "I just don't want to leave empty-handed, all right? I think I've earned that much from all this."

Daphne examined his face, trying to judge whether or not what he was lying. But when his eyes began focusing on the cut on her cheek, she turned away and swatted the air. "Fine. Whatever. Just be quick about it, all right? If that boat actually comes and you're not back in time…"

"I'll be there," he said. She could hear the smirk his voice pressed through.

And then he soft-footed up the stairs so that when she glared back behind her, she saw only a flicker of dark disappear around the corner of the landing.

* * *

_Well done, thief. Now to finish the deed..._

The Eye's coarse whisper cut through all other sounds, and made his ears ring from the inside. The library was empty, at least for the time being, and Raife wasted no time tossing books from the corner shelf where he'd stashed the artifact in his rush to hide. The tomes thumped on the carpet, pages fluttered and bent, the fire in the hearth popped as the logs settled deeper into the grating.

"I'm not here to chat."

The Eye was cold to the touch—no, more than cold. It made his fingertips ache through the skin of his gloves. Colder than ice. He tucked it into the cloth pouch at his hip, but the layers of fabric did nothing to dampen the Eye's voice.

_ Do you think you're worthy of being my master?_

Raife left the books where they lay and returned to the stairs. Perhaps it he ignored it, it would stop talking to him. Its voice made his skin crawl like the vines of the pagan priestess in the catacombs. Where had she come from?

_They followed me,_ he thought, gritting his teeth until they creaked in his skull. _They didn't want me to succeed. Or they didn't plan on it. Let me do all the hard work, distract the Hammerites, and let them slip in behind me to steal it out from under my hand._

His footsteps slapped against the main hall's tile. He might have thought to be nervous if he hadn't been able to hear the crashing of the surf through the walls, smothering the deathly quiet. The wind moaned through the open door. Its fingers raked at his hair, pulled at his eyelashes, and stealthily drew the air from his lungs. A thin film of fog had come over the beach, but through it, he could see a pinprick of light approaching.

"Raife!" It was Daphne, hurrying toward him. "Can you swim? It'll come close as it can, but I don't think it'll get near these rocks."

"I'll be fine," he muttered. "What about her?" Megan lay where he'd left her, and she didn't stir when he nudged her leg with his foot.

Daphne glanced back out at the nearing boat. "I might be able to take her… I could swim Otto out, and then come back-?"

_Great,_ he thought, shaking his head. "Do you want to leave her behind? Because after all the trouble I went through to get you both out of their dungeon, I'd rather not repeat myself."

Who had said that to him? His hand fell to the side of his belt where he'd tucked the Maser Thief's note. "Where did-?"

"Oh!" Daphne withdrew the much-folded parchment from her shirt. "Are you looking for this?"

He snatched it from her when she held it out. "Yes. How did you get it?"

For a moment, he thought she might pout, but the expression lingered at concern and never devolved into personal hurt. "You gave it to me. Don't you remember?"

The letter fluttered in the sea wind, pinched in his grasp. Had he? He could remember the minty touch of the glyph. The raking of what he thought was his last breath. The unsteady waver of his heartbeat. The echoing patter of footsteps racing first away and then back again. That must have been when she went for Otto. But she had said something to him before that, something he felt like he ought to remember. But now…?

"No," he said. "But you should probably take it." He handed it back and squinted out at the boat. It was much nearer now, and he felt a twinge of urgency rising in his chest. "Come on. We should go."

He stooped and lifted Megan into his arms. She felt warmer than he remembered from before, and her sighing breath seemed calmer. Daphne and Otto had already begun wading into the shallows, and when the water deepened, Daphne gripped Otto around the chest and swam with him, dragging him toward the boat. The lantern at the boat's stern swung with the toss of the waves, its thin light casting a glimmering glow across the broken surface.

Raife followed, stumbling over the rocks and into the water. The slope of the shore was steep once his feet sank into sodden sand, and it was difficult to keep his footing as he waded forward. One step brought the water to his knees; the next, to his waist, which nearly made him cry out for the shock of its cold touch; then, he was in completely, unable to find the bank beneath him.

He was not the strongest swimmer, but he did his best to shift the girl so that her face remained above the water at least as much as his own. Salty foam surged around them, and his feet seemed to strike lurking rocks with every kick, until he was sure his legs were mottled with bruises. The water was so cold, he started to go numb almost immediately, but he tightened his grip around Megan and pulled himself forward. The boat wasn't far now, a dozen feet only, but his strength was fading fast, sapped by the chill and the extra weight.

"This…would be…a lot…easier," he sputtered as a wave splashed him square in the face, "if you…were…awake."

Megan's face tipped forward into the water, and he twisted sharply to push it up into the air again. Daphne and Otto were on the ship, leaning over the railing toward him with hands extended.

"Come on, Raife! You're almost here!"

He had no breath to call back with, but a second wind hit him suddenly, giving him the strength to swim toward her. When he was close enough, he caught hold of the side and with his last bit of energy, hoisted Megan up to Daphne's waiting hands. The girl caught Megan by one arm, but it took her, Otto, and a black-cloaked man to pull the girl over to safety. Then they helped him up as well, and he rolled onto the deck, soaked and gasping. Someone—perhaps Daphne—gave him a blanket, which he took gratefully without comment, and closed his eyes with a sigh.

He awoke not much later, clammy but slightly less cold. The sun had just broken the crest of the horizon, and its pale light kissed his face with a hint of warmth. Every inch of him ached, but with a healthy, working ache of tired muscles rather than the lancing pain of cuts, scratches, and bruises he was used to acquiring.

He sat up. At the bow, Daphne stood with the dark-cloaked man, speaking too softly for Raife to hear what words passed between them. But he didn't have to hear the voice to know from the hunch of the cloaked shoulders that it was the Master Thief. Raife felt the weight of the Eye in the pouch at his hip and pulled the blanket closer around himself. Then he stood and moved toward the back of the boat.

Otto reclined at the stern, with Megan asleep beside him in a cocoon of blankets. His head lolled back against the railing, swaying in time with the pitch of the sea, and from his slack-jawed gape, Raife could hear the faintest honk of snoring as he approached. Behind them, Northermeed Island was nothing more than a smudge on the sea.

With a sigh, he lowered himself to the deck beside Megan. She did look better, it seemed. Like she might awaken at any moment. A coil of hair had stuck and dried to her cheek; he carefully peeled it free and tucked it behind her ear. At the touch, she stirred, and for a moment, he thought she might awaken, but she only settled deeper into the blankets, eyes shaded from the morning sunlight.

He looked over when one of Otto's snores cut out, and saw the boy's head drop forward, shake, and then turn toward him. The kid's fblotchy, weary face both made him want to laugh and frown at the same time.

"You look like crap."

Otto nodded, blinked slowly, then glanced down at the sleeping form next to him. When he spoke, he spoke quietly. "It was my fault."

"What was?"

"Getting us all caught." His lips worked like he was going to continue, but it only seemed to tighten his frown. "I was too cocky, and I almost got us all killed. None of this would have happened if I'd just… if I'd been more…"

"Hey." The kid looked up at him and for a moment, Raife nearly considered patting his shoulder, but the fraternity of the gesture made him shift and cross his arms instead. "We're safe now, aren't we?"

Otto nodded again, but it was hardly convincing. The thief sighed through his nose and turned his attention back to the two at the bow. "What's all that about?"

"I don't know. They haven't been talking long."

_He can't know I've got it on me…can he? _The Eye pressed against his hip, but at least it was quiet. _If it talks, does everyone hear it, or just me?_ He hoped it was just him. And he hoped it wouldn't talk for a long time.

With a sigh, Raife rolled over, pulling the blanket snuggly around him. "I need more sleep," he muttered, hiding his face with the coarse cloth.

But he didn't sleep.

* * *

The situation was serious, Daphne knew that, but she still found it difficult at first to keep the glee from her face with Garrett standing right beside her. _How many times have I thought about how awesome this would be?_ She bit back the urge to giggle, and tried instead to focus on the task at hand. _Home,_ she thought._ Remember that place? Where we don't get stabbed or thrown out windows, or turn into monsters? Mom and Dad must be worried sick. Does time pass there while we're here?_

She frowned and said, "You might be interested to know: Artemis thinks we were pulled here by that pagan ceremony. There was another boy, like us, who the Keepers came in contact with. He's dead now, but he was talking about a place called Michigan. I know where that is. It's in our world. I don't know why Artemis didn't mention it before, but-"

"Keepers have their ways," Garrett growled. "What else did he tell you?"

"Oh, he didn't tell us. We…ah, we stole his personal journal and read about it."

The Master Thief's mechanical eye clicked as it turned its green gaze down on her. "Do you still have it?" She thought she saw a hint of a smirk on his face, but the shadow of his cowl made it impossible to tell for sure.

Daphne felt herself blush. _He's _exactly_ like I thought he'd be!_ She bit her lip hard and glanced away. "No, we don't. It must have been lost overboard. If not, then the Hammers probably have it."

"For your sake, I hope they don't." There was a threat there in his gravelly voice, but it didn't seem directed at her. Perhaps it was less threat and more warning.

"All we want to do is get back to our world. We don't belong here. You must be able to see that. And if we _are_ here because of some weird Pagan ritual, the Eye…couldn't that play some part in getting us home? The last time the Trickster had it, didn't he try to open some kind of portal…?"

"The Trickster's dead," the thief said through his teeth. "And the portal he tried to open was destroyed."

"Oh." Daphne stared down at her hands on the railing.

Garrett shifted. "Assuming you're telling the truth about the other worlds, and assuming it's true that you were drawn here," he said, "there would need to be more of you. Presumably, the body they built and resurrected was made from at least three, but knowing the Pagans, there's probably symbolism in every piece."

"Well, there are three of us: one for the head, one for the torso, one for the arms and legs."

"It's more likely there's one for the arms and one for the legs. Or even one for each arm and each leg. You've told me you know of three, but where are the others?"

Daphne shook her head. "I don't know," she said. "Maybe dead already. The first is dead. We wouldn't have even known he existed except that the Keepers came across him." She frowned, feeling a thought bubble up in the back of her mind. "It's strange, isn't it? One was with the Keepers…"

_And one with the Pagans,_ she thought. She glanced toward the back of the boat, where Megan lay sleeping, a thief and a wannabe thief on either side. It had been Megan who met Garrett first. "Megan was with you for a while."

"_With_ is too strong a word," the Master Thief grumbled.

_One with the Keepers, one with the Pagans, one with the thieves: That would leave one with…_

"Maybe the Hammers have come across one," she said. "That would make for four of us, spread evenly across the sects of the city. I'm not sure the Pagans intended that, but I do know they have their own prophecy about the Trickster returning, and I think they believe it'll happen soon."

Garrett was quiet for a moment, then grunted, almost like an agreement. She felt the glee rising in her chest again. "A rebuilt body from four Pagans, plus the Eye." He spoke in a low rumble, almost as if to himself. "That's just what I need."

The boat's bell rang suddenly, and Daphne jumped, twisting to look back at the cabin.

"Land ho!" the captain shouted, and when she looked back out to the horizon, she could see it: the first hazy shadows of the city's skyline.

The Master Thief shifted. "We're done here."

Daphne looked up at him; he squinted at the horizon. "But what about us? Is there anything we can do?"

Garrett didn't answer, and Daphne sighed, feeling the glee vanishing. _We're going to be stuck here forever._ It hit her harder than she expected, and her eyes started to sting. She sniffed. The cloak beside her hissed as the Master Thief took a step back.

"Go to Artemis," he muttered. "I don't normally advocate for the Keepers, but if anyone has a way of sending you back, they'll either have it, or know of it."

"What about the Enforcers? And Cyrus?"

"They've never stopped me from doing what I want."

Daphne nodded and frowned. "Well…thank you. For everything. I know you didn't have to, and I know you don't like Meg much, but just…thanks. If there's anything we can ever do to-"

"Just stay out of my way," the Master Thief said.

Then he turned and walked back toward the cabin. Daphne sighed. The city rose like rocks out of the tossing waves. It was early still, but she could see the first hints of people moving along the docks. Moored ships swayed in the currents. In just a few minutes, they'd be back ashore, maybe not safe, but at least sound for the time being.

When she glanced back toward the cabin, the Master Thief had disappeared as though he'd never been there at all. It gave her a slight chill. At the stern, Otto stretched and caught her eye.

"So?" he asked when she'd walked back to them. "Will he help?"

Daphne sighed and shook her head. "Not much, really. He just said to go to Artemis."

"Artemis." The boy's face twisted. "Geez, of all the helpful advice…"

On the deck, Raife groaned and pushed himself up on one arm, squinting into the strengthening sunlight. He yawned. "So where next?"

"Not to the Keepers, that's for sure," Daphne replied. "At least, not now. We need to lie low for a while. Regroup, you know?"

The thief shrugged and for a moment, he looked like he wanted to go back to sleep. But then he gave a little shiver and pushed himself up, balling the blanket as he did so. "Ok, but where?"

Daphne frowned, and Otto shook his head. The thief shifted his bleary gaze from one to the other, then sighed through his teeth and rolled his eyes. "Fine. I'll take you to my place. But it's temporary. Got it?"

"Got it!" Daphne cried. She went to hug him, but he deftly stepped out of range. "Thanks, Raife! I mean it. This is just-!"

"_Temporary._"

She grinned. "Right. Temporary, but still really, really nice!"

She was surprised he could roll his eyes as hard as he did without them popping out of their sockets.


	20. In Which Friends Unhappily Part Ways

**Chapter 20: In Which Friends Unhappily Part Ways**

She was first aware of coarse wooden beams stretching up to the peak of a sharp, pointed ceiling, and then, slowly, the rest of the space came gently into focus. She was in a room, a cramped, sparsely-furnished garret, and she lay on a thin mattress stuffed with a material that was sharp and rustled beneath her as she shifted. At the sound, a seated figure in the corner of her eye moved slightly—lifted a head?—and she heard the creak of a chair being pushed back.

The person stood and approached the bed. He spoke, said something, but although the voice was loud enough, she didn't quite catch the words. Everything echoed, trapped, in her ears, ringing while her mind resolved the face of the man now sitting at the edge of the bed with one she remembered. Then clarity came like a flash of lightning in a dark room, and instinctive reaction made Megan throw her arms around the thief's neck.

"You're all right!" she cried, squeezing tighter if only to feel the warmth of a human body after what had seemed like an endless night of phantoms. He was so warm and stable, and she'd thought- But he was alive. She hadn't gotten him killed. And the strange, cold mists that had hung over her, the ones that flickered with fire and screams she didn't quite recognize, were far away from this tiny, quiet room.

Maybe it was the tangy scent of brine and sweat, or the long strands of hair brushing her arm, or the sudden realization that he wasn't hugging her back, Megan jerked herself free of the embrace, mortified. If she hadn't been blushing before, Raife's incredulous face set the blood rushing up to the roots of her hair, and her face burned.

"Are _you_ all right?" He seemed to mistrust his own voice as he spoke and stood, brushing his hands back over his hair. The formation of an uncertain smirk on his face softened the worst of her embarrassment, but not enough to keep her from pinning her stare at her blanketed feet. "I mean, I expected a thank you and everything, but…" He scoffed, and the smirk became more confident. "At least you've got some energy back. Now I won't have to carry you all over the city."

Megan bit her tongue and closed her eyes, willing the heat beneath her cheeks to subside. What had possessed her to hug him? What would Daphne say! Her head ached, and her left cheek itched. As the thief strolled to stand by the one window on the opposite side of the room, Megan raked her fingers over the faintly puckered line of skin running from her throat up to her temple. Her hand paused where her fingertips touched the knot of frizzed, burnt hair. She shivered.

"Where are Daphne and Otto?" she asked, the chill clutching at the base of her throat. She couldn't swallow, couldn't breathe. "Are they here? Are they all right?"

He leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Late afternoon sunlight brushed his face and neck with mellow luminance that seemed to soften his expression. It looked warm there in the sun. "They're fine. They went to find that friend of hers, the bar wench. Should be back soon."

Megan nodded, and the chill began to subside. But still she could hear the roaring of icy waves, the ringing of alarms, and Daphne's shriek in the night as glinting hammers swung down on them.

_We should never have gone there,_ she thought, embarrassed suddenly to be near him, realizing how annoyed he must still be.

"Sorry," she croaked at length. "I should probably apologize for…for the mess we made at Northermeed…"

The light outside seemed to dim, as though passed over by a cloud, and the smirk faded with it. "Don't apologize to me, all right? You don't owe me anything. We're even."

"No, we're not even." There was so much she'd thought about saying, about apologizing for, and the thought that the idiot would get himself killed or worse-! That _she'd_ get him killed before she could get the festering thoughts out of her head was too much. "We're not even close to even. We shouldn't even be keeping track, because we're not even playing the same game! You told us not to tag along after you, but when we heard about the Keeper-! And after all, it was our fault you even got tangled up with all this- and you didn't ask for it! You were right, we're holding you back and we're going to get you killed one of these days!"

The thief started to say something in retort, something snide—no doubt—pushed between his sneering lips, and he had a right, didn't he? After all they'd put him through? But she couldn't stop, not now that she'd started. It rushed out in a jumble of tripping, stupid words she could barely get off her tongue fast enough.

"We should have parted ways the moment you helped me rescue Basso—yes! Helped! I couldn't have done that alone, could I? You know what a wreck I was! And when I killed that guard—I would have had to, sooner or later, but it was only because you were there that I didn't mess up the whole rescue tweaking out over it!"

"Megan." The thief glared at her, grinding his teeth. How much could he possibly hate her by now?

It made her anxious, made her angry. "I yelled at you before because I- I didn't- I was scared of what would happen to us if you left, because let's face it, you're the only person with an skill we know who will even _talk_ to us!

"And then there were the Keepers, who you _knew_ would get us into trouble, and they _did_, and I should have listened to you, but you just make me so _mad_ most of the time, looking down your nose at me, calling me a kid or a little girl or stupid—I _am_ stupid here, but I'm smart enough to know it, thanks, and I don't need _you_ to tell me-!"

A strangled word tried to escape him, but she cut it short.

"I'm not finished!" She was shaking all over, but for once she felt like she was saying all the right things. "You can say whatever you like to me later; you can curse me or mock me or sneer at me or laugh in my face—you've got every reason to hate me, and I don't blame you—but I need to say this, and I need to say it _now_, because otherwise who knows when I'll have the courage to say it again.

"When we got to Northermeed and the alarms were going, you know what my first thought was? I thought you were an idiot and set them off by doing something stupid—and I was angry at you for that—but, Raife, I'm just really glad you're not dead and that the Enforcers haven't killed you, and that _we_ haven't killed you or gotten you killed yet, and you really probably should just-!"

It took only two swift strides for him to cross the floor, and when he caught her face in his hands, she knew he was going to break her neck.

Instead, he kissed her.

If she had ever imagined what his kiss would be like, she would have thought it would be rough and selfish, the way he was. Instead, it was so strangely soft, she found herself kissing him back before she even realized what she was doing. His jaw was like sandpaper under the palms of her hands, but the hair at the nape of his neck was smooth as silk thread. She couldn't breathe, but she could feel the warmth of his breath across her cheek. He held her head in his hands as tight as a vice, but when their teeth clicked against each other, he pulled back, breathless and flushed, staring at her with an enigmatic look she didn't understand.

Footsteps drawing near, in the hall. Voices: did she recognize them? The thief stood, swept his hands back over his hair, and went to slump in the chair at the desk.

She thought she could see his jaw twitching as he fidgeted with the knife belt at his hip, pulled it free, and lay it across the desk top. His hands moved in sharp, angled gestures as he snatched up a whetting stone, plucked one small dagger from its belt loop, and began swiping its blade across the stone. The knife's edge flashed in the strengthened sunlight.

_I should say something,_ she thought suddenly, but she didn't know what to say, and judging from the whizzing zing of the knife across the stone, she wasn't sure he wanted to talk anyway.

The footsteps stopped outside the door, and the hinges squeaked as it was thrown open to admit a frazzled, huffing Daphne with Otto at her heels.

"She wasn't there!" she cried, then paused when Megan caught her eye. The frown that had crimped her friend's face immediately vanished, burst by surprise. "Meg! You're awake!"

Megan felt her fingertips brush the burnt hair at her temple again, though she didn't remember reaching up for it. "Yeah," she said, but it came out croaked until she cleared her voice. "I guess I've been out a while?"

"A while!" Daphne's face beamed as she dropped onto the bedside and threw her arms around Megan's neck. "Gosh, I thought you'd never wake up! Otto and Raife said the last potion would do it, but I- I just- I didn't know what to think!" Meg laughed as she choked in Daphne's death grip.

"You're going to knock her out again if you're not careful." Megan was violently aware of the thief's voice, but when she glanced over at him, he was absorbed in testing the sharpness of the dagger against his thumb.

_He kissed me._ She felt the blood rush to her face, from the base of her throat where her pulse raced like fleeing footsteps in the streets to the roots of her hair. Her lips tingled; she could still feel where his palms had pressed her cheeks.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" Daphne said, laughing as she pulled back, holding her at arm's length. "I'm just so glad you're okay!"

Megan nodded furiously, hoping the movement would shake the blush out of her face. "It's okay. Really. I'm glad you're okay, too!"

"And what about me, huh?" Otto had moved to stand just behind Daphne with his lanky arms crossed and a hesitant smirk on his face.

Megan grinned back. "I knew you'd be all right," she said. "I could tell by how fast those skinny legs of yours ran when those Hammerites were coming after us!"

She'd hoped it would make him laugh, or at least smile, but he only nodded with a frown, and glanced down at the floor, shifting where he stood. "I should have stayed to help," he said quietly.

The sudden memory hit her like a hammer: the rush of cold air, the feeling of sea mist on her face, the shrill echo of a scream in her ears, and then pain and fire racing up her skin, burning against her temple. She felt sick, and the bile rose in the back of her throat. The room spun.

"Are you okay?" Daphne's voice swam to her through the sound of crashing waves and a whining siren.

Megan swallowed, and it settled like a rock in her chest. "Yeah. Fine. Oh, Otto, I… I didn't mean…" He lifted his gaze to her. "There wasn't anything you could have done. And it wasn't your fault. We…we all made mistakes." Her voice sounded hollow to her.

Raife was watching her now, a knife and the whetting stone forgotten in his hands, though whether he watched with concern or with anger she couldn't quite be sure. The thought that it might be anger twisted something in her chest and made her frown. Or was it concern? It was hard to tell by the expression alone, and it was too focused for her to meet with more than a glance.

"What were you saying when you came in?" she asked Daphne, forcing herself to look back at her friend, her voice rasping in her throat. "Who wasn't where?"

"Oh!" Daphne blanched and frowned. "I'd completely forgotten. Sherry. We went to the meeting spot at noon today, but she wasn't there. She didn't come."

"She's probably just mad that you left her behind," the thief said from his remote corner. "Just wait until she shows up tonight after letting you worry about her for a while."

Megan shifted, looked at her blanketed feet. _How can he sound so calm? So bored?_

"Sherry wouldn't do that to me," Daphne said firmly. "I know her. She would never make me worry without good reason. Besides…" She turned her gaze back to Megan. "We went back to where we'd hidden Gus, but he was gone, too, and it didn't look like he'd just wandered off."

Otto hunched his shoulders and lowered his voice. "I'd bet every penny I have that the Hammerites found him, or found out about him. If that's the case, they would have had to take him somewhere, probably to Gormalt Cathedral. There are a couple of churches around this part of the city, but it's the biggest and the closest to that particular alley. It's probably where any Hammerite big-wig would be staying, and they'd probably take it to him to see what to do with it."

"And we think that's probably where Sherry is too," Daphne said.

Raife scoffed softly and stood, grabbing the threadbare cloak from the back of his chair. "And that's my cue," he said, nearly smirking as he threw the cloak over his shoulders. "Hate to step out on you like this, but there are a couple of townhouses calling my name, and I'd like to replenish my personal stores a bit before getting into any more life-threatening situations."

Daphne gave him a narrow glare, then sniffed and shrugged. "You're not tied to us or anything. Do as you like."

"I will." The thief frowned, took a hesitant step toward the door, paused there, and then said, "I expect you to be cleared out of here before I get back."

His voice was chill, and when Megan glanced up at him, he immediately turned away and left. The clunk of the door closing behind him nearly made her jump.

_But he…_ Gritting her teeth, she forced the flicker of another blush away and pushed the thought from her head. _He's probably kissed tons of girls that way. He probably does it all the time. He's handsome enough, who am I to think I'm so special?_ It made her angry, which was better, at least, than the confusion from before. _I'm such an idiot,_ she thought, clenching the blankets in her fists. _And he _knows_ I'm an idiot now. He must have seen it all over my face. I'm so _stupid_! _

Daphne was watching her, she realized, and with a cough, she nodded, shifted and swung her legs out from under the blankets. The floor was cold on her bare feet. "Well, let's go look for Sherry, then."

"Is something wrong?" Daphne asked, softly, and for a moment, Megan was afraid she'd been too obvious. But then Daphne added quickly, "I know you're probably not eager to go racing back to the Hammerites, and that's totally okay."

_Good,_ she thought, _she doesn't suspect a thing. At least only he and I know how dumb I am._ The thought gave her little consolation.

"You don't have to go with us," Otto said. "It'll probably be easier with just me and Daphne. We can find someplace to lay low, and you can stay there while we-"

"No." Megan set her jaw. "I'm coming with you. If I sit around anymore, I'm just going to drive myself nuts…" She sighed. "But we're not going in there unarmed. I want some kind of knife, and maybe a few gas bombs, health potions, invisibility potions-"

"Hey!" Otto looked wounded. "I can make an invisibility glyph that is just as-" Daphne glared at him, and he rolled his head. "Okay—_nearly_ as good as any potion you could buy."

"Yeah, I'm going with Meg on this one," Daphne said, scoffing, even as Otto squawked his indignation. "Sorry, but as I recall, your spell didn't necessarily cover clothes, and I am _not_ popping into view naked in front of so much as a rat, let alone a troop of armed Hammerites!"

Otto sulked and hunched his shoulders. "If you did, they might not try to kill you."

Daphne and Meg shuddered in unison. "Yeah," Daphne said, distain dripping from her voice, "and I don't want to know _what_ they'd do then, thanks very much! I'd rather deal with them trying to kill me."

The kid threw up his hands in mock defeat. "Fine! We'll get you some stupid potions, all right? Geez." He turned toward the door and pulled it open. "So, let's go, all ready! What are we waiting for?"

Daphne stood and gave Megan one last concerned frown. "Are you sure about this? No one would blame you if-"

"I'm sure," Megan said, though when she stood, her legs weren't quite as firm under her as she'd hoped they would be.

* * *

The furious shadow cut a cleft through the crowded streets as pedestrians hurried to get out of his way. They couldn't see more than the snarl beneath the deep cowl of his hood, but they could feel the searing glare of his eyes somewhere from the darkness within. The snap of his cloak made those around him shrink back, afraid that invisible daggers might suddenly prickle from the folds of dark cloth. When he passed, there was a collective, unconscious sigh of relief, and a moment later, a shared realization that the purses strapped to their belts had been liberated from them. But by that time, the thief was gone, vanished into other streets, and no one particularly wanted to test their luck with him, even if they could find him again.

If they had known more fully of his wrathful mood, they might have left town all together. The sunlight offended him, made him curse under his breath and seek out the darker streets. The cacophony of carts and callers, bartering, laughing, and shouting: the noise sizzled in his burning ears, made him grind his teeth until his jaw ached. The presence of so many bodies, so much crowded flesh, made his skin crawl and boiled away the last of his patience.

His own snide voice in his ear made him clamp his lips tight to keep from shouting back at it. _You are such a damned fool,_ he thought. _Shit! What were you thinking?_

The thief turned down a less crowded alley, ducked into a shadowed doorway, and flung off his hood. He threw the knife he'd been twirling endlessly in his hand into boards of the wooden steps, where it landed with a thud and stuck, tip-down and shivering. He tore off his gloves; they slapped when he tossed them to the ground. Then he sat, and rubbed his hands over his cheeks and neck to erase the phantom touch of smooth hands, drew the back of his fist over his lips as if he could wipe the memory of the kiss away. Hands clenched in front of his face, he sat scowling at the few alley beggars who wandered past, deftly avoiding the overhang as if they knew he was there.

A kiss was nothing. Nothing. How many women had he kissed before? He scoffed and brushed a strand of hair from his brow. Hundreds, probably. No: thousands! Girls fell over themselves for him all the time. He was always popular in certain circles. He knew how to turn on the charm when he wanted to, knew how to play the game, how to make them blush and swoon and cling to him. And he was just as good at slipping away, disappearing, leaving them guessing. He'd become such a pro at it, there were some houses he didn't dare go back to for fear of the madam's wrath at his effortlessly dumping one of her girls. It had always been easy to walk away. Always. He gave a hard, thin grin at the now empty alley and scoffed.

But this had blindsided him, and he hadn't been prepared. He hadn't been thinking straight. He hadn't expected it to be so hard to stop kissing her, or that one kiss could set him that much on fire. Sure, it'd been a while since he'd been laid, but he'd never felt like this before…

No, that wasn't true. He had, once, but he'd been so young. He didn't know how a woman could sink her claws into him, tie strings around his wrists and make him dance for her like some damned puppet. Or twist his heart in his chest with just the flick of a hand.

It made his skin burn just to remember that overzealous, desperate, pining kid he'd been in those long-gone days, begging for the kiss of her bright red lips, for the gaze of her dark, smoldering eyes, for the thrill of her amused laughter, and the greedy touch of her hand. She must have been twice his age. Maybe more. But he'd been her lapdog, her little toy, and she'd known it well. The things he'd done for her… He'd grown used to the feel of crusted blood on his hands. She'd said she liked the taste of it on his skin.

It made him sick to remember, and sicker still to realize how close he'd just come to that uncomfortable territory again. He gritted his teeth.

_Never. Again. This is it. If you didn't have reason enough to leave before, you have it now. You're done with them all. You've made an ass of yourself, and this is what you get. You want recreation? You know where to go. But as for her… As for them—you're done. I'm done. _

With a sigh, he stood, picked up the knife and gloves, tugged the hood back over his head and stepped out into the sunlight. He felt weary to the bone, exhausted, and the unnaturally heavy weight of the Eye at his belt wasn't helping. But that was something he could work with.

It was a good thing he'd thought to memorize the drop-off location on the map Pawsberry had given him. The map itself had disappeared sometime between nearly getting his head pulverized by that damn robot and getting on the boat to Northermeed, but at what point he'd lost it, he couldn't be sure. Someone could have picked his pocket. It wasn't impossible.

He did not immediately head to the forest. He had grown much too comfortable with risk in the last few days, and this time, he was going to take no chances. If he appeared to Pawsberry at the designated spot with the Eye in hand, there would be no reason for them to let him live. The pagan monster they'd sent after him on Northermeed proved he was expendable to them, and he didn't like the position that left him in. No, to show up with the Eye in hand was suicide, and he'd had enough near-death experiences to satisfy himself for quite a while. Perhaps it was cowardly to worry, but if it was, he was not ashamed. Cowards lived if they could run fast enough. And the brave would die one day, no matter what danger they faced down and vanquished once upon a time. Death always wins; that's something the coward knows.

_Not that I'm a coward,_ he thought to himself as he wove through the gradually thinning crowds.

The spot he had in mind was risky in its own right, particularly after Northermeed, but the chances were good that no Hammerites had actually gotten a good look at him. What with all the other crazy things to be killed by, he was really just a gnat; no one would remember a simple thief.

_ Even a dashing, fleet-footed one._ Even if they did, and even if there was anyone left to realize that the Eye was missing, they certainly wouldn't think to look for it here. He grinned to himself and ducked into a notch of shadow across from the front gates of the old Mechanist seminary. The gates now bore the shining hammer of the Builder, but the place was little more than a patrolled shell, an unpleasant reminder to the traditionalists of a rather embarrassing moment in their sect. The lock on the gate looked relatively simple, but in the light of the afternoon sun, it would be hard to avoid suspicion if he was seen tinkering with it too much. He didn't exactly look like a devout believer.

There were other ways, of course.

He glanced up and down the street, watching the few milling beggars who gathered here for the thin Hammerite charity they could occasionally collect. One of them he knew from years ago, when he'd tried to take the straight and narrow for a few weeks before he realized it wasn't worth being penitent and starving over dishonest and well-fed. They'd been youths together, then, but the man he saw drifting this piece of street was ragged, bone-thin, and damned-near a walking corpse. He didn't exactly pity him; there were plenty of ways to get fed in this town, if you were willing to get your hands dirty. He'd never liked those who deliberately suffered for their righteousness; it made them proud and arrogant, even when they wore only shreds of clothing and stole scraps of bread from the rats. Filthy mongrels. He felt his lip curling as he watched the haggard man hobble past him, hollow-eyed and whispering penance.

He could see only one city guard from his hiding spot as well, but there were likely others. This part of town was known for its decayed elements and often had regular patrols to keep the more insidious business from sinking its roots in too deep. If only he could wait until nightfall, this would be as easy as picking a pocket in a crowded street. But he'd grown used to less than ideal circumstances.

A gangly, toothless old man sat on the cobblestones by the gate's entrance, chewing on his gums and speaking softly to himself as he rocked back and forth, lifting and lowering his gaze from the heavens to the streets at seemingly unpredictable intervals. The thief pried a fat little green gem from one of the purses he'd nicked on the way. It was a fine stone, intricately wrought with a family crest. Someone would be looking for this one eventually. As much as he hated to part with such a pretty, expensive thing, it'd be too much trouble to fence without cutting into tiny pieces, and that would invariably drop the value.

He turned the gem over in his hand and sighed at its fine craftsmanship. Someday he'd have gems with crests of his own. Hundreds of them. Thousands. Millions, even. What was one tiny gem now in the face of all that future wealth? It didn't make his fingers stop itching when he pushed up against the dark wall and threw the gem in a high arch toward the beggar. It struck just a little left of his head, which made the man cry out and wince away from the sound. But once it rolled to a stop just a few feet from him, the beggar opened one of his squinty eyes and crawled toward it, stooped, plucked it from the ground and turned it in his fingers. His wrinkled lips formed a delighted O.

The thief pulled another trinket, a silver necklace—the strings deftly cut while passing a young lady in finery, and caught with a nudge, a smile, and an apology as it slid from her throat—and tossed it out across the street. It hissed as it slid across the stones, drawing the beggar's eye. The old man clucked and twisted, still clinging to the gem as he came upon the necklace.

A gold ring, a handful of silver coins, and a few more gems of various size and shape sprinkled the sidewalk with a few quick tosses. The beggar was chortling, clucking, laughing to himself as he gathered up the goods in his dirty, boney hands. The thief crouched and waited as the city guard patrol drew nearer, and just before they passed in front of the beggar, he rolled a well-timed gold medallion into the street. It came to a quiet, clinking stop half-way to the beggar, who immediately saw it and lunged for it, right into the feet of the approaching guard. There was a shout, a clatter of a helmet and a scabbard striking the cobblestones, the scrabble of bare feet and long fingernails, and the inevitable cascade of pretty noises caused by the sudden spilling of the beggar's stash.

The prostrate city guard's cursing brought out the others of his squad from their hidden posts, and soon a small cluster of them had gathered around the beggar and their comrade. This, as the thief watched, was when they noticed the charming goods the beggar clutched.

"Oh, ho! What's all this then?" A mustachioed guard stooped to snatch up one of the crested gems. "Where'd you get a thing like this?"

The beggar, either incapable or unwilling to speak, squawked instead and tried to snatch the gem back. That did not go over well. Another guard, a man with a craggy face and sleepy eyes, caught the beggar by the scruff of his neck and shoved him back, while the moustache guard caught up a few more gems and the ring from the stones. The thief settled himself into his pocket of shadow and watched with growing amusement.

"Awful big haul you've got yourself today," the moustache said, his discolored teeth grinning beneath the fringe of brown hair.

The guard who had fallen, now on his feet once again, nudged the crouching beggar with his foot and took up the wooden begging bowl, emptying it onto the ground. The silver necklace fell out, and the guards crowed at the find. The beggar's face fell and he whimpered as he tried to get his hands on his stash again, only to have a hard heel come down on it, making him yelp and pull back.

"Well, just look at that!"

"Mighty fine jewelry for a dirty taffer like you," mustache said, his voice dripping with mockery. "Do you always wear it with those scabby pants of yours?"

"He'd have to do something for the ladies. He smells like a pig!" The previously-fallen guard laughed and kicked the begging bowl across the street. It struck the wall not far from Raife's hiding spot, which made him less amused.

"Come on, now! Come on!" The droopy-eyed guard grabbed the beggar under his boney arm and hauled him to his unstable feet. "Where'd you get all this lovely stuff, aye? Haven't been in Stonemarket lately, have yeh? Because, funny thing, that there necklace looks an awful lot like one we got a report on not too long ago, aye? How'd you come by it?"

The beggar chewed his gums, wrung his hands, stammered, drooled.

"Yeah? You're quite the talker, aren't you?" The moustache grabbed the old man by the shirt collar and shook him. The beggar clutched onto his arm and leaned as he struggled to stay on his feet. "Hey now! You let go!"

But the beggar was sinking to his knees, and his babbling had grown to a height of panic, which wasn't helping his case much. The once-fallen guard kicked him, which made him shout and cling tighter, which made the mustache angrier.

"Oh, you want a piece of me, aye?" the moustache shouted, readying an arm to swing at the poor beggar.

The thief sighed, took a small gem, and hurled it as hard as he could at the guard's head. It struck the man in the cheek, just above the right curl of his moustache, and it hit with quite an effect. The guard howled and let go of the beggar to clap a hand to his cheek, and the beggar took that moment to bolt for it. He was a speedy little devil of a man on all fours, loping into the back alleys, while the guards gave chase, leaving the courtyard temporarily deserted.

Raife stepped from the shadows with a cautious glance around him, and, satisfied that he was alone and unobserved, moved quickly to the old seminary door. Sure enough, with a few careful twists, the lock clicked open and fell away. The thief entered with care, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him in case he needed a quick retreat. But as he moved into the shadowed overhang and stepped off the metal grating onto the dead, brown grass, he doubted a retreat would be needed. Most of the large windows were shattered or punctured with holes from bricks and other projectiles; the grounds were in poor shape and overgrown; and the front doors were heavily chained, though the links were rusting.

Still, he took care, not wanting to find himself face to face with a bored and overzealous Hammerite who would more than enjoy catching an intruder to fill his time. He wound his way along the walls, keeping close to any shadows he could find. The further he went, however, the less likely it became that anyone, even a single Hammerite acolyte, was anywhere nearby.

He was just beginning to feel a bit bored himself when he turned a corner and found a gold cherub face with a single blue eye glaring at him. The yelp he made was not entirely brave, nor entirely manly, nor was the panicked backward leap that brought him out of sight and—he hoped—out of range. But after a moment in which the only sound was the thundering of his heart in his ribcage, he dared himself to peak around the corner again. The giant, rusted robot had not moved, and no steam trickled from the pipes on its back. Grass had grown up around its motionless feet, and the vines from the wall had ensnared one of its claw arms.

Still… That eye had lost no luminance, no crack obscured it, no dust coated it. The thief waved a quick hand in front of its face, but it did not make a sound and stayed hunkered down on itself at perpetual rest. With a sigh that came out more like a laugh, Raife circled around it to the back, saw its domed furnace cold and empty, though a thick, soft blanket of ashes remained inside.

The idea struck him, and the aesthetic of the circumstance made him grin as he plucked the Eye's pouch from his side, pried open the furnace grate, and made a deep divot in the ashes. The little pouch fit perfectly, and when it was covered, the layer of ash looked just as it had when he'd found it.

_Now _that's_ what I call I hiding place!_ The thief couldn't help but chuckle at his own genius as he set the grate back in place and brushed the ash from his gloves, his clothes, his cloak. _I dare any Pagan to come looking for it here._

With the Eye carefully hidden, he slipped out of the seminary and replaced the lock just as it had been. Then he headed back into the streets.

* * *

Keeper Cyrus knew his methods weren't always approved of by the Keeper Council, but that hardly meant they weren't effective. If he'd his way, which Keeper Artemus rarely allowed, there was no doubt in his mind that this whole mess with Pagan and Hammerite prophecies would have been cleared up days ago. But no: Aretmus had an excess of patience for undesirable contacts, and even though the girls had assaulted him and left him for dead, kidnapped an acolyte, and run off to stop the enforcers who had been rightly dispatched to deal with their Keeper-murdering companion, even then, he had plead with the Council to repeal the death warrant and persuaded them toward clemency.

Cyrus had no respect for men of that nature. He imagined them weak and simpering, too absorbed in the _meaning_ of things than in the way things actually presented themselves. Cyrus himself had been no shirk when it came to book study. His mind was like a steel trap: once he read something, he never forgot it. He could recite all of the primary Glyphs backwards at any moment; he could list every Glyph which made use of the Key stroke or the Knowledge radical. It was only his unrelenting dedication to facts that made the Council repeatedly pass over him for appointments in favor of those who shared their inane fascination with the deeper shadows of events and prophecies.

He had too good a memory to forget even the slightest insult, and as he slipped unnoticed through the city streets and into the shadows of Gormalt Cathedral, he burned as he thought of the latest reprimand from the Council, driven—no doubt—by Aretmus' pleas.

_Have patience, _his own voice whined the words in his mind. _Always patience. Patience is the way of the Keepers. Withdraw the enforcers and let the girls alone. They will return to us. We are the ones best equipped to help them. _Cyrus clenched his fists at his side and stepped into an alcove across from the Cathedral's front doors. There were days when he thought he would have been better suited as a Hammerite zealot, save for the fact that he found the scriptures and teachings dull, and had no tolerance for those devoid of the passion for intellectual growth.

Well, he had done what was asked, though he had refused to give up entirely. The Keeper-murdering thief knew something. Of that, he was absolutely certain. And he had little doubt that wherever the thief was, the girls would also be, sooner or later. So he had left a handful enforcers on the man's tail, if only to follow and observe. The thief, of course, would never know. Unlike the fool Pathnar who had misjudged the thief's inclination toward violence, the enforcers were armed and far more astute at tracking. And if something occurred which required them to kill him, so be it. There were rules about killing Keepers, no matter what the Council decided to turn a blind eye on. Either way, he'd find out what the thief knew and locate the girls again. What he would do once he found them, he wasn't sure, but he had to remind himself of his scolding: _Patience._ He had plenty of time to determine what was necessary. No one had seen the girls since they'd left the mainland, and as yet, he'd heard no report from the enforcer who'd followed them. No news was not necessarily bad news, he knew, particularly when it came to enforcers.

Besides, he had his own work to focus on for the time being. Rumors had been circulating that the Hammerites were being visited by a messenger of the Builder: a strange youth with knowledge of the city's events far beyond his years. They called him "The Hammer," and there were rumors, too, that this youth was preparing them for a great battle against the Pagans. But what interested Cyrus was not rumors and gossip from the lips of irritable zealots, but that the youth had supposedly appeared at just the same time as the young man the Keepers had found half-dead in the streets. At the same time as the two girls. That would make four, the number Aretmus speculated would have been needed for the Pagan ritual, if the ritual indeed drew from external life forces previously unknown to even the Keepers. Far-fetched, perhaps, but Cyrus was nothing if not dedicated to exposing every possible path of logic.

The courtyard before the Cathedral was quiet in the late afternoon, and the sun heated his dark cloak as Cyrus passed quietly to the nearest wall of the structure, unnoticed by even the few milling citizens walking past. There, on the warm stone, he drew a precise glyph; and when the wall faded, he slipped inside.

* * *

There were many ways to access the dense forests surrounding the city, but the shortest was through the Pavelock prison cemetery. Here, there were no guards to patrol the inmates.

The thief dropped unnoticed over the stone wall separating the cemetery from the streets. In the dimming light, it was almost quiet here. He might have thought it peaceful if he weren't so aware that beneath his feet were the permanent holding cells for the prisoners who had not been so lucky as himself.

_Lucky, so far._

Some of the graves had markers with a name scratched into the white wood; some were naked, marked only by a vague indentation in the overgrown weeds. The long, dried-out grass stalks snagged on his cloak, left little seedpod gifts in its folds. His footsteps crunched as he walked, save for the one time he walked across a fresh grave and felt an involuntary shiver when the soil sank beneath him. The name wasn't one he recognized, but he alleviated the chill by placing a silver coin on the new marker, so fresh the white paint stuck to the fingertips of his glove. He had enough enemies already; he didn't need the dead holding any grudges.

No one tended these, the final resting places of the city's unwanted, though the thief was surprised as he passed through to find a few clusters of wilted wildflowers bundled and placed with seeming care beside some of the faded stakes. He paused at one bundle, freshly picked by the look of the blooms, and glanced across the broad yard, but there was no one but himself anywhere to be seen. It made him feel suddenly conspicuous, and as he continued, he hunched a little lower and hurried his step toward the shadowed tree line.

Compared to the graveyard, however, the woods provided little atmospheric improvement. The moment he stepped beneath the dense canopy, the light faded to a grim dusk, and the noise of the city vanished beneath the damp silence pierced with angry bird cries and the distant hum of insects. If he'd closed his eyes, he could have been a thousand miles from civilization, but he didn't dare to lower his guard even for a moment.

The drop-off location was some distance in, which he didn't like. It meant he was in their territory, and home advantage was theirs. The dense canopy of leaves overhead stirred in a breeze he couldn't feel, whispered things that sounded a little too close to words for his comfort. In the distance—or at least, he hoped it was distant—he heard something that sounded like the crash of a tree falling, and a low moan. It made his skin prickle, and he pulled his thin cloak around his shoulders, tugged the hood further over his face, as though the cloth alone could hide him from whatever myriad eyes watched him from the forest.

There were no clear-cut paths, no easy way to keep himself on track. Every so often, he paused to gouge an arrow sign into the tree bark, pointing his way forward, but that would only assure him a path back out, not that he was heading in the right direction.

Pagans gave him the creeps. Again, he started to loathe his eagerness to take up a mission even the Master Thief wouldn't take. Had he been mad? _Distracted, maybe. _He frowned.

It was just as he began to seriously consider turning back, to wait until full daylight to return, when he stepped out of the low brush into a broad, grassy clearing. Overhead, the canopy parted, showing him a piece of glittering dark blue sky filled with emerging stars. The air was cold; he could feel the breeze now, sharp against him. Or at least, he thought it was the breeze until he felt the knives press closer—two at his throat and one at his back—and he heard a familiar voice whisper, "You didn't follow instructions."

The thief stood very still, but out of the corner of his eye he could see Pawsberry standing there, his face twisted in a scowl. "And you," he growled, "sent a beast after me. I'd say both sides of our agreement were breached." The knife edge under his jaw sank a little deeper, and he felt it break the skin. He swallowed. "But I got your damned Eye just the same. No thanks to you."

"Where bes it?" the pagan on his left, unknown, hissed.

"I figured you folks might be mad, and not really want to hear my side, so I hid it. I'm the only one who knows where it is, so kill me if you like, but you'll never find it without me."

At first, the knives pushed closer, but then a woman's cold voice said from the edge of the woods in front of him, "You're very clever, thief, but you lie." A figure emerged, not from the line of trees, as he'd expected, but in a writhing coil of roots and vines which rose from the ground to form a woman, a woman with long dark coils of hair trailing over her shoulders.

He gritted his teeth to fight back the urge to run, but the knives withdrew a little at the flick of the woman's hand.

She smiled at him, her green lips parting to bear inhumanly sharp teeth, as she approached to stand before him. He could definitely feel the cold breeze now. It stirred her hair as though it were a nest of snakes and stole the breath from his lungs. Her green eyes seared him with their gaze.

A coarse, bark-like hand took his jaw between her fingers. A tiny leaf sprouted from the tip of her thumb and brushed against his throat. "You say we sent a monster after you. But we have done no such thing."

He used a too-confident scoff to clear his throat so he could speak. "Well, whatever it was used a lot of vines and thorns to do its dirty work, so naturally, I assumed. It nearly killed me, too."

"_It_, you say." The woman's smile tightened. "Do you mean _she_, by any chance?"

The grip on his chin tightened, then nodded his head for him.

"Yes," the woodsy woman hissed softly, the smile growing so broad it spread much too far across her cheeks. "Then she hasn't left the city. Would you be able to recognize her again, my dear thief? She will not always be so…frightening as to be called a monster. I am not a monster, am I?"

Again, she shook his head for him, and he clamped his jaw tight to keep the growing panic in his chest at bay. She snickered then, and released him, though she did not step any further away.

"You will bring us to where you hid the Eye, and we will pay you what we promised and let you go," she said. "You need not fear for your life, thief. The information you've provided is very useful to me. But before I release you, tell me: do you know two girls, one a stranger here, the other a barmaid? You'd know the first if you saw her; she's young, sweet, but she knows more than she should if she truly is just a youth. She is not from here, nor anywhere in our comprehension."

Raife felt his stomach turn. Whose face had he first seen after the vine creature nearly killed him? Whose voice had he heard, really, when the multi-toned shriek called his name?

_Daphne?_ He swallowed, and the woman of the woods pressed her lips together, pleased.

"You have," she whispered. "You know of whom I speak."

"No, I-" He shook his head, but that only made the woman laugh. It was low and high at the same time, a strangely echoing laugh that seemed to come from everywhere at once—everywhere besides her throat.

"Don't lie to me, my dear thief," she said. "There are so many ways for a fleshy body to die, and we have already agreed to keep you in good health. I would hate to break that promise, in the end, because you tried to trick me."

A strong hand on his arm made him turn, see Pawsberry watching him closely, knife still drawn but at his side.

"You will take Pawsberry and Lockleaf to where you hid the Eye," the woman said. "And then, when you have finished, do give your friend a little message from me." A folded parchment formed in her hand, and this, she passed to him, pressing his fingers tightly around it. "Then we shall leave you to your business. If you ignore this request…" Her smile returned, and her eyes narrowed to slits of black. "…you will not enjoy what will be left of your short, miserable life."


	21. In Which A Rescue Attempt Begins

Chapter 21: In Which Our Heroes Prepare for a Rescue

Daphne leaned against the wall of the corner alley and watched the passersby with vague interest. Here, a scarred and dangerous looking man with a hand bristling with rings; there, a reedy civilian with a purse a little too bulging at his hip. Her eyes went straight to the goods, she realized, and if she hadn't had so many other worries on her mind, she might have giggled to think of what a thief she'd become.

Megan sat on the cobblestones behind her, resting her cheek on her drawn-up knees. She looked a bit paler than she had when they'd first left Raife's apartment, and every passing minute she seemed to wilt a little more in the fading heat of late afternoon. Otto was nowhere to be seen since he'd slipped into the store across the street, and that seemed like it had been ages ago. Daphne wasn't sure what was taking him so long, but she was starting to get antsy, and the skies were beginning to lose their sunny glow. Much longer, and it'd be twilight.

Daphne cast a quick glance at Megan, but her friend seemed lost in thought.

"Are you sure you're okay?" she asked at last.

"Huh?" Meg lifted her head. "Yeah. Fine."

She didn't look fine. She looked exhausted. And sick. And something else Daphne found a little difficult to define—a little crease in the center of her brows was the only sign of that, and it seemed to deepen whenever Meg closed her eyes or zoned out like she was now. Otto had assured her that the final health potions had completely healed her, so whatever this was, it wasn't exactly malady, though it sure seemed to have taken the wind out of her.

"You just look really tired, is all."

Megan's jaw twitched; her eyes narrowed. "I'm _fine_."

"Okay." Daphne glanced out across the street at the store front again, but there was still no sign of the kid or the supplies he swore he could get for cheap from some contact he claimed he had. "I hope Otto knows what he's doing," she muttered.

Megan huffed and straightened out her knees, rubbing her face with her hands as if scrubbing the weariness away. "I'm sure he doesn't," she said. "I'm sure he's got a wonderful new plan to get himself—and us—into trouble."

Daphne shifted her weight. She was getting tired of standing and waiting. She itched to get moving. If Gus were at Gormalt, any number of terrible things could have happened. What would the Hammerites want with a giant Karras robot, anyway? Didn't they hate that stuff? _Maybe they'll take him apart,_ she thought, and it made her heart sink to think of Gus' in pieces. And if Gus _was_ at Gormalt, then the chances were good that Sherry went to get him out, and the thought of her friend alone in a Hammerite cathedral—knowing more now than ever before what they were capable of—made her a little sick to her stomach.

"He's been helpful sometimes, though," Daphne replied. "He's not stupid—inexperienced, definitely, but not stupid. You have to give him that."

Megan's lip curled and she hunched down into her shoulders like a cornered tabby cat Daphne had once seen in the back shed at the local farm stand. It was a mean, low look; if Meg had the ears for it, they would have been flattened back against her head.

"I don't have to _give_ him anything," she growled.

Daphne prickled at the sudden flare of temper, and felt a wave of dizziness sweep across her. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the wall, breathing as smoothly as possible. She could sense the tension radiating from her friend, even through the sightless red darkness behind her eyelids, and it crept like roots under her skin, tensed her up.

"He's just trying to be helpful," she said, carefully measuring the tone of her words to ensure that no other voices joined her own. "He feels really bad about what happened at Northermeed."

"Who doesn't?" Megan snapped. "Don't try and tell me how everybody feels bad about that. You have no _idea_ what it was like—"

"_I_ have no idea?" Do you remember who you're talking to?" Daphne opened her eyes and glared across the street. "It wasn't like Otto and I were having a picnic or anything while they were—" She cut herself short and shook her head. "I've never been so scared in my life. I couldn't even get angry enough to stop them, because every time I started to get worked up, I'd—I'd hear you, and just…lose it."

A cough made her look back down at Megan in time to see her friend's shoulders shiver and tears begin to slide down her cheeks as buried her face in her knees and hugged them, trying to hide. Daphne's chest tightened, and she sank to her knees, put her hand on Megan's back.

The touch made Megan shudder, cough, and choke back another sob. "I'm so scared," she said, her voice breaking into pieces. "I can't—Every time I close my eyes, I—" Her hand was up at her temple, picking at the spot where the faded scar mingled with the boiled ends of burnt hair. She cried like Daphne had never seen her cry before, not here in the game or back in real life.

Daphne slid her arm around Megan's shoulders and gave them a squeeze. "Hey… Hey, it's okay. We're safe now."

Megan shook her head against her knees, heaving a gasp through her tears. "We're not. We're not safe. We're still here. Here. Here. Here. Oh, Daphne," she sobbed, "I want to go home!"

Daphne felt her eyes sting, but she blinked quickly to chase away any sympathy tears. She wasn't used to having to encourage Meg and make _her_ feel better. It was almost always the other way around. But something had changed the dynamic of their relationship back there at Northermeed, and Daphne felt it acutely. Somehow, through everything, she had emerged the strong one, and Megan had been broken. She only hoped that with time, the old Megan would fight her way back to the surface so this scared, sobbing, shaking Megan could fade away.

"We're going to get home," Daphne said, forcing a smile and shaking Megan by the shoulders. "We're _going_ to get home! We will. I promise you we will."

Megan shook her head again, but when she spoke, her voice seemed steadier. "You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can," Daphne replied. "I can feel it. We're going to be back home sooner than you think, and we'll throw away every copy of this game we have so we'll never, ever, _ever_ come back here again, and then all of this will be like it never happened. Okay?"

For a moment, it seemed like her words had shored up Megan's strength a little, but then, out of nowhere, the tears came back in a violent rush, and Meg pressed her hands to her face with a bitter laugh.

"Hey!" Daphne shifted to face her, hugged Megan's knees to her side. "Hey, what's wrong? Don't you believe me?"

"_Stupid_!" It came through Megan's hands as if through a wall, and Daphne felt a twinge of frustration that only dissipated when Meg leaned back and let her hands fall free. She was almost smiling, but it was a strange, unpleasant smile, like the smile of someone dying. It chilled the momentary flicker of heat in Daphne's chest as surely as a bucket of ice water. "I am so _stupid,_" Megan said again, shaking her head against the wall; her hair scraped the stone, and she let out a phlegm-y cough of a laugh.

Daphne waited as Megan sighed, brushed her cheeks dry, and closed her red-rimmed eyes. Her cheeks were blotchy from crying, and she wiped her running nose with the heel of her palm. She shook her head again, and then drooped, exhausted from the tears and whatever thought had brought the little crease back between her eyebrows.

"What makes you think you're stupid?" Daphne asked. "You didn't know what was going to happen on Northermeed—none of us did. We couldn't have done anything to stop—"

"Not that," Megan said, and she let out that sharp, bitter laugh again. "I kissed Raife."

"You _what-_?" Daphne shrieked. Passersby turned their unsavory, narrow glances on them at the exclamation. It made Daphne's skin crawl, so she leaned in close, and in the most forceful whisper she could muster, "When? How? Where? _Details! _Was he a good kisser?"

Megan didn't have to answer: the blush that enveloped her said as much. "Well, he kind of kissed me first. But I kissed him back."

Daphne bit back a squeal and shimmied closer, hunching over Megan's knees. "When? When? When!"

"Just before you and Otto came back. But you saw how he was. It was…It was just so weird. It wasn't how I imagined it-" ("Not that I _have_," she added when Daphne eyebrows arched knowingly, "but just saying, you know, _if_ it had crossed my mind before—") "And it happened so fast. I was just…I was talking—apologizing, actually, for the Keeper thing, and for yelling at him, and all than nonsense—and then he was there, kissing me."

Daphne could feel her face curling up on itself into a Grinch-like grin, but she couldn't help it. Her stomach was full of butterflies and the thought of her friend making out with the undeniably cute thief was just too much to hold inside in any dignified manner. She giggled and bit her lip. "With tongue?"

Megan's eyes went wide, and the blush deepened, if it was even possible. It went all the way down to her throat, and her ears were bright red. "Daphne!"

"Oooo, I knew he was a tongue-kisser!" Daphne squeaked. "I just _knew_ it. You know, some guys you just look at, and you just think, _Yup, he's a Tonsil Teaser—_"

Megan punched her—somewhat lightly—in the shoulder. "Stop it!" she hissed through her teeth, but it only made Daphne chortle.

"Ohmi_gawd_!" she cried, clapping her hand over her mouth. "I _knew_ he liked you. I just _knew, knew, KNEW_ it! Did I call that or what!"

"Shh," Megan hissed again. "Keep your shirt on. It wasn't—It was—I don't even know if he was really thinking about it. I mean, he probably just did it to get me to shut up. And besides, he's probably kissed lots of girls that way!"

Daphne rolled her lips between her teeth and snickered through her nose. "_Megan and Ra-aife, sitting in a tree! K-I-S-S-_"

Another punch, this time, considerably harder and less friendly than the first, jarred Daphne enough to make her lose her balance and fall back on her butt. "Ow! Hey!"

Megan had lost a little of the blush and looked a bit stronger than she had a moment before. She leaned forward, keeping her voice low. "I said _stop it_! This isn't funny! I—I really—" She hesitated, clenched her teeth, and crossing her arms, leaned back again. "Never mind. Forget it."

The maniacal mirth that had overtaken Daphne vanished in a split second at the sight of her friend's somber face. "Oh. Oh, my g-d. Are you in _love_ with him?"

Megan jumped. "No! No, that's not—I don't even know if I _like_ him, let alone…" She stopped abruptly, shook her head and took a deep breath. When she spoke, she spoke softly, carefully. "No, that's not true, either. I _do_ like him. A lot. Too much. I haven't been able to get him out of my head, and it hasn't just been today. It's been almost since we first met him. At first, I thought it was just because he annoyed me so much, but it wasn't that. And then, when he kissed me today…" She was blushing again, and she pressed her hands against her cheeks as if to hide it. "I just—I… I don't _want_ to like him."

"What do you mean, you don't _want_ to like him? You do!"

"I know, but Daphne—" Megan raked her hands through her hair and let out a gust of a sigh. "I don't know anything about him. I don't even know how _old_ he is!"

"Might be forty," Daphne suggested.

Megan gave her a dead-eye glare. "He's definitely _not_ forty."

"He's got some grays!"

"He does _not_! And even if he did, you can have some grays and still be in your twenties, can't you? From like…trauma or something?"

Daphne tilted her head and returned the blank stare. Megan squirmed and hugged her shoulders. "Okay, maybe _late_ twenties. That's still kind of young, isn't it?"

"What_ever_ you say," Daphne said. "But hey, who cares, right? You like him. He obviously likes you. It's not like you're going to marry the guy, so who cares how old he is? He's _hot_. And I'll bet he looks _amaaaaazing_ without his shirt on—" She jogged her eyebrows at Megan, who only rolled her eyes. "Use him and lose him. Have some fun! It won't matter once we get home anyway."

"I can't do that."

"Sure you can!" Daphne shifted onto her knees. "Why can't you?"

"I just…" Megan sighed and shook her head. She looked about to say something, then hesitated, then said instead, "What's the point? Like you said, once we get home, we'll forget all about this place. But if I—if I really let myself feel like that… What if you only get one One? You know? What if this is my shot at true love, and I blow it, and I never find anybody else, because I won't want to forget him?"

"_Awwww…_" Daphne wriggled with warm-fuzzies and clasped her hands at her chin. "Maybe we can take him with us."

At this, Megan scoffed. "Right, and what would he do there? He's a _thief_. Can you imagine what would happen to him if he stepped into our world—assuming that's even _possible_? You think he'd stop doing the only thing he knows how to do when he got there? He'll get thrown in a high security prison for armed robbery and probably murder! And anyway, he's not exactly the kind of person I've ever thought about, you know… settling down with. Does he seem like the settling down type to you?"

She had a point there. Still, Daphne could imagine how smexy the thief would look in ripped jeans and a black T-shirt…maybe with a dark leather jacket… on a street racer… with that long, long hair of his tied back like it always was… Mmmmm….

"Hey. Earth to Daphne." Megan snapped her fingers in Daphne's face, and Daphne came back to the moment with a frustrated sigh.

"Sorry," she said. "I still think you're writing him off too easily. He'd be hot with three t's in the modern world. Criminal or not."

"My parents would be thrilled, I'm sure. Can you imagine him at prom?" A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, but when she shook her head, it vanished. "Anyway, none of this even matters, because he probably doesn't even feel that way about me. He probably just kissed me to shut me up or make me feel stupid. He does that, you know."

"He wouldn't do that."

"Oh yeah, how do you know?"

"Because he—" Daphne caught herself and hesitated, watching Megan's face for a long moment, wondering if she should say what had just come to her mind. She'd been hoping to avoid this little detail of the events at Northermeed, but sooner or later it was going to slip out, and it was probably better just to tell her up front. If she found out later because of something Otto or Raife told her, Daphne had no doubts of the indignant vengeance that would follow.

"Because he…_what?_" Megan's eyes narrowed.

Daphne exhaled the gust of air she'd been holding, and said, "I probably shouldn't tell you this, but…whatever. He was dying, okay? Just remember that. I was only trying to give him something to hang on for. And…and you didn't see the way he took care of you, or how angry he was when he saw what the Hammerites had done to you. It was really sweet, actually. I don't think I've ever seen him that gentle before."

Megan's frowning stare was intense. "What did you do." It wasn't a question, and it wasn't all warm and fuzzy like Daphne had hoped it might be. She felt a stab of fear in her gut, reminding her of that terrible moment when she thought for sure she was watching Raife die in front of her.

"I didn't mean to hurt him," Daphne said quickly. "I just couldn't stop myself, and it got away from me, and before I knew it, I was… You know how I get when I'm like that, only this time it was worse. I was _so angry_ at them for what they did to you that something just…snapped. I lost it. And with the enforcer there-!"

Megan's eyes widened, and she dug her fingers into Daphne's arm. "There was an _enforcer?_ On Northermeed? When? Where-? Did it follow us?"

"It must have," Daphne said. "But wherever it came from, it found us there, just after we'd gotten you out, and it went after him, and—You have to believe me: if I'd been able to stop sooner, I would have, but it was like driving on the highway at night in a snowstorm. The more I slammed on the brakes, the more I lost control, but I _did_ get it under control, and I stopped, but—Oh, Meg! I almost killed him. He was in the way, and I didn't realize it was him until it was too late. I could see him dying right in front of me—he was bleeding, and I—I've never seen him so bad. Even after we fell out of the window, he wasn't that bad. I thought he might not make it, and I, I wanted to…to give him some hope, you know? Something to reach for. And I just said the only thing I could think of at the time. So I… I might have… I told him you loved him."

It came out in a gust, and Daphne clenched her hands at her lips as if willing the words back. "You're not too mad at me, are you? It's just… that's how I know he wouldn't have done that just to make fun of you. He knew you liked him. It'd be too mean, and—well—he may be a jerk sometimes, but he's not really cruel like that."

Megan stared at her in silence, all the blush faded, her face left waxy. Her hands slipped to her lap as she looked off at some distant place over Daphne's left shoulder and sagged back against the wall.

"Please say you're not mad," Daphne whispered. "I didn't mean to hurt him, and then I just—I panicked…"

"I'm not mad at you," Megan said softly. The crease between her eyebrows was back, though it faded when she shook her head. "It just doesn't make any sense. If he knew… if he felt that way… I mean, you saw him when he left. Did that seem remotely romantic to you? It seemed like the instant he kissed me, all he wanted to do was to get away from me."

Daphne shrugged. "He _is_ a bit dramatic. Maybe he's just as confused as you are."

"Maybe…" Megan didn't seem convinced, but then, out of nowhere, she shivered violently and sat bolt upright, gripping Daphne's arms again. "The enforcer-?"

"Dead, maybe. Or out of the way, at any rate. Garrett saved Raife at the last minute."

Megan blinked at her, and then closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Sorry, I think I'm more tired than I realized. I thought you just said Garrett saved Raife."

"I did say that." Now she had Megan's full attention, wide-eyed in disbelief. "I know! I thought that at first, too, but… Oh! Here!" Daphne dug into her shirt pocket and pulled out the crumpled parchment Raife had given to her. It was stained brown in places, and as Megan took it from her, Daphne watched her friend eye those spots dubiously.

"Is this… Is this his-?"

"Um, yeah," Daphne said, feeling a little blush of embarrassment pinch the skin of her cheeks. "But he's fine now. Just remember that. Obviously fine enough to stick his tongue down your throat, so that's good, right?" She tried to laugh, but it came out shrill and manic. "He gave that to me, and I—I couldn't help it. I read it. I never knew you wrote to Garrett to apologize for—"

She hadn't finished her sentence by the time Meg snatched the folded note from her and tore it open. She held it close to her nose, scanning the lines of her own hand-writing and down to the very bottom of the page where under the sloppy signature, there was a sentence in another hand—a vicious style scratched out in thick, un-blotted black ink—which was signed with a single _G._

Daphne knew what it said. It wasn't hard to memorize eight words: _I will meet with her once. Thank Basso._

Megan's eyes hung on that line for a long time.

"Everything's even now, isn't it?" Daphne ventured after the silence had carried on a bit too long. "Raife's safe, we're safe—or, at least, _safer_—and you and Garrett are kind of…well, not friends exactly, but squared away?"

"Did he talk to you? Did he do this?" Meg's eyes hadn't move from that single _G._

"On the boat from Northermeed, yeah. We had…well, it wasn't quite a conversation in the traditional sense, but he talked. I talked. We shared ideas."

"Wow," Megan said softly.

"I know, right? I hadn't expected anything like that from him, but he really saved our tails back there. And he didn't have to. Like it says, Basso must have convinced him."

"What'd he say?"

Daphne did her best to explain, about the ritual in Old Quarter being really a resurrection of some strange patchwork man, or something like that, and Garrett's assertion that there might actually be more of them drawn into the game than initially thought. "And I was thinking about it after we talked, me and Garrett, I mean, and I was thinking that maybe, you know, there was one with the Keepers, one with the thieves (that's you), and one with the pagans (that's me, unfortunately), so that would leave—"

"One with the Hammerites."

"Exactly!" Daphne grinned. "Exactly!"

"So what are we supposed to do? Does he know how we can get back?"

Daphne's stomach sank. "Well…no. Not really. He wasn't very helpful in that department. He just said we should talk to Artemus again."

"Great advice." Megan folded up the parchment and tucked it into her shirt just as a shadow fell across them.

"That's what _I_ said." Otto set his armful of what looked like reams upon reams worth of dark fabric on the ground at their feet. The bundle clicked on the stone as things made of glass shifted inside its dark folds. "The man's back with the bacon, ladies."

Daphne thought about smacking him upside the head for a moment, but when he flipped back the corner of the cloak and she got a peek at the haul, she couldn't help but be a bit impressed. Nestled in the bundles of fabric were three invisibility potions, a pair of health potions, one slow-fall potion, a trio of daggers in leather-bound sheaths, and a few apples.

Even Megan leaned forward, her fingers brushing one of the green-blue flasks of invisibility. "How… How did you manage to get all this?"

The kid shrugged casually, but the first hint of a smug smirk was beginning to wear down his professional solemnity. "I know a few people. Folks who owed my father a few favors. You know."

"This is really great, Otto," Megan said, "I was a little worried when you said you had some _contacts_, but you really—"

"Water arrows! Neat!" Daphne snatched up a shimmering blue crystal attached to a long fletched shaft, waggling it in the sunlight. The light caught in the trapped water and cast bright, shimmering ripples of illumination across their faces. "Now we're _really_ prepared!"

"Would you _stop_ that?" Megan snatched at the arrow, but Daphne leaned back just out of reach. "Do you want everybody in the city to know what we're about to do?"

Daphne sighed and sat back on her heels. "Geez, you're no fun sometimes, you know that?"

Otto folded the cloak over the goods again and with a quick glance behind him toward the open street, he lowered his voice to say, "We should get going. Gormalt's a good ways away from here, and it'll take us a while to walk." He glanced at Megan. "Are you sure you're up for it?"

Her friend gritted her teeth and forced herself to her feet. "I'll be fine. Just get me moving."

The sky was still bright, but the sun had sunk below the city rooftops, bathing the streets in blue, dusky shadow. The heat of the afternoon had already faded, leaving in its wake a chill, damp breeze that seeped through the winding roadways.

As they gathered up their things, Daphne noted the way Megan's knees seemed still a little wobbly beneath her, and the pallor of her face was still a few shades off from healthy. No health potion, not even Otto's healing glyph, had seemed to take the nervous edge away from her, though the final potion had at last erased the vaguest remnants of the scars.

But there was something still off, and she was pretty sure it wasn't just the drama with Raife. It seemed deeper than that, a weariness, a hopelessness that had set in after Northermeed, and it scared Daphne more than the screams from the purification chamber. She hated seeing it, but wasn't sure what to do to help.

So instead, as they began to pick their way down the shadowed streets, she asked quietly, "You'll tell us if you're too tired, right? I mean, if you just don't feel like—Nobody would blame you if you didn't want to—"

"I'll be _fine._" Megan leveled a thinly-veiled glare at her. "I'm not an invalid or anything."

"Okay. If you say so."

Daphne glanced up at the sky. There was still light, so there was still time. It made her wonder if Sherry could see the sky at that moment. She hoped she could. She hoped they might get to Gormalt Cathedral and find her waiting there for them, irritable but safe. But some of that weird dread that seemed to cling to Megan as closely as a thief's cloak seemed to rub off on her, and Daphne found her capacity for optimism dampened even beneath that bright afternoon sky.

* * *

His name was Matthew Grayson. He was sixteen years old, a junior at Lansing High, a rising soccer star (it was obvious, whether or not Coach Mathey agreed), a shop class whiz, and last year had been voted "Best Smile" by his classmates. He still had his duct tape wallet with a mint-condition Michigan driver's license, a couple of five's, and a twice-folded magazine page of a nearly naked Megan Fox tucked away behind the dental insurance card his mother had loaned him for a cleaning.

He should have been driving the 70's Mustang his father had bought him for his birthday, or shot-gunning a Budweiser behind a 7-11 with his pals Chris and Nathan, or lounging in bed with his Audiotechnica headphones blasting 110 decibels of Glitch Mob directly into his brain while skimming updates on Facebook posted by people he didn't really care about, or screaming through the bathroom door at his dumb-ass sister for spending three hours to slop on makeup and straighten her hair into burnt straw.

Instead, he was in a stone room in a stone tower in a stone city, staring into a cold hearth as big as his kitchen table had been back home. Instead, he was trying to get into character, trying to play out the game he'd started a week—was it a week?—ago, first by accident, and now by design. Instead, he had an entire religious sect eating out of his hand. Instead, a trio of heavily armed men with three-foot mallets stood waiting in silence, hanging on the chance to obey one of his instructions. Instead, he was—and he didn't doubt Coach Mathey would agree on this one—possibly the most powerful person in the city, outside of a particular thief.

He liked the change.

"The Pagans have annihilated Northermeed. They snuck in under our very noses, stole the Eye, and destroyed our holy sanctuary." He turned sharply, and felt a jolt of pleasure when he saw them shift nervously under his gaze.

He did his best not to blink. He wanted them to feel his unadulterated wrath. The middle of them, a man they called Artech, glared back without shame for a few seconds, but finally glanced at the ground.

"The Pagans now have the Trickster's Eye. The war is upon us, and still you are not ready. I asked you to install my spy mechanisms in the hallways. Where are they? I asked you to gather as many able-bodied brothers and sisters as would answer the Builder's call to arms. Where are they? I asked you to build me a weapon that might stand a chance against the Trickster himself—_Where is it?_" Matt began to pace in front of the hearth. He wished there was a fire in it, even though the afternoon had been so stiflingly warm and the sun was not yet finished setting. A fire behind him would have been a nice touch; he had a taste for dramatic flare.

"The Builder sends me to ready his army, to gather his holy forces against all that would destroy the world, and yet—" He came to an abrupt stop and lifted an arm, as if surveying a great and empty expanse. After a moment, he let his arm drop with a heavy sigh. Anger was useful, but disappointment worked best with these kinds. "Sometimes I wonder if there is even one among you who has the true heart of a Hammerite. If all my efforts are to be thwarted—not by our enemies, but by ourselves—perhaps it would have been better not to come to you at all. Perhaps this city was meant to fall. Perhaps the Builder knew this, and is only testing me."

He flicked his gaze back to the sober men, and of them, only Artech dared raise his eyes, and even then, only for a moment before they fell back to the carpet. Beside him, Prolan's jaw twitched as if he wanted to say something, but thought better of it. Farrus hung his head like a whipped dog.

Matthew clasped his hands behind his back and began pacing again. "The final battle draws near," he said, keeping his voice low so that the others had to strain to hear him, as if they were covertly overhearing his own thoughts aloud, "and there is no time left to waste, no time to hesitate. I will do everything I can, sacrifice whatever it takes, to secure and defend this city against the hoards of the forest. I can only hope you intend to do the same."

"Thine commands shall be obeyed, Holy One," Prolan said. He held his chin high again, but still would not meet his eye.

"And you, Artech?" The man straightened upon hearing his name. "I can feel your doubt as surely as if I could touch it with this hand."

Artech was no wimp, that was obvious. He had gall, and he had height. He was easily six inches taller than Matthew, hands-down. But Artech was only one man, and _he_ was the Builder's Hammer to these idiots, which mean of the two of them, it was Artech who should be watching his back.

"I am without doubt, Holy One," Artech said carefully, but it was clear to everyone—even to himself, it appeared—that the words rang hollow.

"You lie to me, even now." Matthew couldn't help smiling slightly. "Honesty met with dishonesty at every turn."

He could feel the tension in the room mounting. To stir it, ever so slightly. He was tired of the man's insolence, of the rumblings of doubt he made through the halls of this sacred place. Matthew knew couldn't very well take over the city if he had to watch out for Artech's inevitable betrayal.

"Tell me," Matthew said, and he took a step closer. "Your father. Who were his people again?"

Artech's face flushed red-hot in the blink of an eye. Matthew could practically hear his teeth grinding behind his tightly sealed lips. "He was a good Hammerite."

"But he came from woodsman stock. Didn't he?" Matthew met and held Artech's searing glare. "He came from the forest, from a family of dirt worshippers."

Artech's lips could barely keep his teeth restrained, and the effort not to grimace tugged fiercely at the muscles of his face. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse and low. "My father didst leave those heathens behind when he didst come to this city. He carried the Builder within his heart."

"And you, Artech? Do you carry the Builder in your heart? Or does the blood of those wretched ancestors still flow in your veins?"

Artech's nostrils flared, and his fists clenched at his sides, but he did not take so much as a step forward in defiance. It was rather impressive, Matthew had to admit. "Mine whole soul belongs to the Builder," the man said, very low, very soft.

Matthew leaned forward, looked up at the man with a pitying smirk. "I don't believe you."

It only took a hunch of a twitch, but the intensity that had built between Artech and the other two was strung so tight that even that hint of aggression was enough for Farrus to catch his one arm and for Prolan to immediately catch the other, locking Artech in place.

"Take him to a prayer room, and there, lock him in with bread and water to last several days." Matthew stepped up to the man to clap him on the shoulder. "I have not given up on you yet, Artech. And your ferocity is something the Builder values, should it be focused in the correct way. A beam of light—insubstantial in its own as heat itself—can burn through walls with enough focus. Perhaps with a little time to center yourself, you will come to understand."

"Thou art a fraud," Artech whispered, his glare as intense as if directed through a magnifying glass at just the right angle. He spoke it so softly, the other two didn't seem to have heard it at all, for they twisted him around and directed him out of the room without hesitation, without further outrage.

It wasn't until Matthew heard their footsteps fade down the coiled stairs of the tower that he let out a sigh and ran his hands back through his hair. He was tired. Hungry. The fading afternoon light cast the imprint of the stained glass window across the floor at his feet, and even as he watched it, he could see the outline of the heavenly hammer quickly fading on the carpet weave. The room was growing cold. The night was coming on. Matthew shivered.

Things were happening in the city. Things he didn't fully understand.

And he didn't like it.

* * *

With the afternoon sun long gone, the twilight evening was cold and made Megan shiver as she followed Daphne and Otto through the streets, not unintentionally falling slightly farther and farther behind. It seemed as if they'd been walking forever, endlessly trailing along roads that went nowhere or split off into a dozen different paths. The city streets had never seemed so complicated in the game, but now, in person, they seemed labyrinthine and maliciously crooked. Designed to throw the out-of-towner into confusion.

Every so often, the rooftops above them split apart, and she thought she could make out the tower of a cathedral somewhere in the distance ahead of them, but it was always only a brief glimpse before they plunged back down a hill, wove along the canal, cut through a series of back streets, leaving her completely disoriented. It made her dizzy, and she hated that. She was just starting to feel better. But the next time the shadowy tower of the cathedral popped into view, her stomach lurched, betraying her with a vicious wave of nausea that sent her diving for the nearest gutter. But without having eaten for some time, the gutter wound up no more fouled than before. Megan stumbled to a short flight of nearby steps, and sank onto them. She drew her cloak tight around her shoulders, yet it seemed to provide no protection from the chill in the air. Leaning her burning temple against the cold stone wall made her head ache, but at least it was sturdy. Several of the glass bottles in the cloak's hidden pockets clinked out a tuneless melody against the steps through the folds of fabric.

She hoped the other two would realize she was no longer with them and come back for her, but at the moment, with her stomach lodged somewhere up in her throat and her heart beating so hard in her chest she could feel every pulse in her gut, she only barely cared if they did. Even the frustrations from earlier, which had driven her to clench her fists and dig deep to find the strength to keep up with them, had turned brittle and cracked in the cold. Now, she was too tired even to be bothered with the humiliation.

_I can't do this,_ she thought. The butterflies in her stomach danced in mad, spiraling circles. _I can barely walk. I feel like I'm dying, but there shouldn't be anything wrong with me. I'm healed. I'm _healthy_!_

But she felt sick and exhausted. Even with her eyes closed, blocked by walls upon walls of city streets, she could still sense the shadowy presence of that cathedral tower off behind her right shoulder blade. Her stomach clenched like a fist.

The heel of her felt-soled boot slipped off the edge of the bottom step, making her knee drop and jarring her upright. Her head swam, and though she tried to sigh, the air seemed locked inside her chest like air in a balloon. She couldn't hardly breathe. Her heart beat so hard and so fast her ribs hurt.

_Don't get sick, don't get sick, don't get sick._ But she couldn't breathe, and that made her heart pound faster, made her temples feel as if someone were slowly sliding a knife blade right into her skull. Her whole body was shaking.

_Just get moving again. It'll pass. _

With a huff, she forced herself up onto her wobbly feet, gripping the railing of the stairs so tightly she could feel her fingernails grate against the stone. The tiny vibrations up her fingers made her stomach lurch again, but this time, she swallowed down the impulse.

A cold hand on her arm made Megan jump, but it was only Daphne. "There you are! Thought we'd lost you for a minute."

"Sorry," Megan replied. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her dry mouth, and her lips felt as if they would crack at any moment. Had they been that dry earlier? The thought made her wince.

Daphne frowned at her and gave her a hand off the stairs. "Are you okay? You look awful."

"Thanks."

"Hey, where'd you go?" Otto's voice sounded sharper in her ears than it ever had before, and she wished everyone would speak more gently. Every loud noise seemed to resonate in her brain, echoing long after the initiating sound itself had faded from her ears. "One minute you were right behind us, and the next—gone!"

"I'm not sure your coming with us is a good idea, Meg," Daphne said softly. "I think you're having a panic attack. Maybe it's just too soon to be—"

"It's not like I'm the only one who suffered at Northermeed," Megan snapped. A twinge of indignation had sparked inside her, loosening up some of the frozen air in her chest. "Nobody else is freaking out about it."

"Yeah, but they… I mean, maybe it's just hitting you now, you know? You've been through a lot, and—"

"Don't patronize me. I'm not a child. I'm as adult as you, and I'm sure as hell as adult as _him_—" (She tossed a crooked thumb towards the kid, who flinched, scowled, whined, "Hey-!" Daphne's concerned frown had hardened slightly under a single raised eyebrow.) "If you and he are all right with it, why shouldn't I…?"

"We're almost there, at any rate," Otto said to Daphne. "We could just find a place for her to hide out of sight and lay down for a while…"

"Don't do me any favors."

The kid shrugged and turned away, and Daphne sighed. "Meg…I'm just worried that you're only going to put yourself in danger if you come with us. There's no shame in being scared."

_No shame?_ Megan felt the last little bit of her energy drain out through her feet, absorbed into the stones of the street. She knew Daphne meant she'd put _them_ in danger, and she was right, wasn't she? She could barely walk; how was she supposed to slip into a Hammerite cathedral without being detected, especially when just a glimpse of the building sent her into terrified spasms. She hated to admit it, but she knew if the positions were switched, she'd feel the same way. Better for her to lay low and safe, even if it meant swallowing her pride and accepting defeat. But it rankled her, and made her irritable, which she knew was a waste of energy even as she knew she wouldn't try to hold it in or hide it.

"Okay," she growled. "Okay. Maybe you're right."

It made her face burn to say it out loud, and made the hollow of her stomach drop like a lead weight. _Pathetic,_ she thought as Daphne took her arm over her shoulders and helped her down the street. She wanted to lay down and wake up in the sweltering heat of mid-day. She wanted to close her eyes and sleep for weeks and weeks and weeks, and wake up with the city crumbling from old age around her, overgrown with weeds and saplings and moss, a medieval Rip Van Winkle.

But most of all, she wanted to curl up in her own bed, in her own house, with her own family sleeping in the other rooms around her, knowing that when she woke up, she'd have nothing worse to fear than a late homework assignment, a grouchy boss, or a neglected physics project. She wanted to eat defrosted toaster waffles and glut out on marathons of cooking shows on cable; she wanted to get in a car that could carry her miles and miles and miles without the slightest effort on her part. She wanted the most dangerous weapons she carried to be a tiny can of mace in her purse and a fistful of keys.

They still had so far to go before they'd ever see home again, and that was assuming there was a way back at all. It seemed as though every step they took only drew them further away from where they belonged, and every day they spent within the game, the world around them seemed to become more and more real, and their own, less and less so. Hammerites and pagans seemed as plausible as police officers and nudists; credit cards and homework assignments as real as gold coins and hand-drawn maps; glyphs and prophecies and magic as believable as calculus, physics, and photography.

"Don't you miss gum?" she asked Daphne as they plodded along. She had long since stopped wondering what direction they were headed. If she thought about it, she could still feel that invisible, looming presence of the tower—though now, it felt as if it lay directly ahead of her.

"What?" Daphne asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"Gum." It was such a weird word, now that she thought about it. "You know: Doublemint. Bubble Yum. Bazooka. Or toothpaste?"

"Deodorant," Daphne said with a laugh. "Or eyeliner or hand soap or Klondike bars?"

"Oooo," Megan sighed. "I could _so_ go for a slice of pizza right now."

"A slice of what?" Otto squinted back at them.

Daphne giggled. "Or a hotdog!"

"No, a huge bowl of popcorn!"

"Pop-what?"

"I wish I could swim in my pool right now," Daphne said.

"I wish _I_ could swim in your pool right now! I'd just float on one of your inner tubes and drink iced tea. And listen to the radio. Even the commercials, I don't care."

Daphne grinned beside her, gazing forward as if she could see her own back yard right then and there. "That would be great! KISS 108.7 W-Z-I-D!" she sang, and that cracked them both up again. "Of course, my dad would be working the grill for steaks or something, and it'd smell sooooooo good!"

"We'd have watermelon, too." Megan could almost taste it, just thinking of it. A little strength had seeped back into her, though whether it was the thought of the warm sunlight heating her back as she lay out to dry, or an actual warm shift in the night air, she couldn't be sure.

"What are you two talking about?" Otto demanded, dropping back to walk beside them. "What a _watermelon_? Or an _inter-tube_? Is this more weird otherworld stuff?"

Daphne giggled. Meg felt herself hoisted up again, and remembered to put her weight on her own feet. "Oh, Grasshopper," Daphne said, "there are so many things your little mind cannot even _begin_ to comprehend."

"Like radar."

"And airplanes!"

Megan squeezed Daphne's shoulders. "Disney movies!"

"Disney _World_!" Daphne cried.

"Starbucks!"

"The Eiffel Tower!"

"iPods!"

"Tampons!" Daphne shrieked.

Megan couldn't stop herself from letting out a burst of laughter. "Don't—don't tell him about tampons," she said, gasping. "He hasn't even reached puberty yet. It might kill him!"

Otto snorted. "You're both completely nuts," he grumbled.

Then they turned a corner, and the cathedral's tower loomed dead ahead. They all came to a sharp stop, and Megan felt her heart catch in her throat. Before she could check herself, she shivered from scalp to toes. _Don't freak out. Be strong._ But she couldn't pull her attention away from the glowing stained glass window and its giant golden hammer shining down on the street.

The windows along the ground floor seemed to follow her like watching eyes as Otto finally led them a little ways down the street before stepping into a shadowed corner.

There, Otto plucked all of the contents from his pockets and laid his portion of the haul on the ground in front of them. Megan and Daphne exchanged a glance, and then did the same. The goods all lined up in a semi-orderly row on the cobblestones, Otto and Daphne stooped to figure out what they needed.

Megan stood off to the side, and glanced down the street towards the cathedral. Her skin prickled like she was being stared at, and she shrank back into the shadows to get better out of sight. At least the streets were empty and quiet. Every so often, she heard footsteps at a distance, but they always dissipated after a few heart-pounding seconds and vanished into the night.

On the ground, Otto and Daphne had started two piles: one for taking, and one for leaving. Megan noticed that the leaving pile was positioned closer to her.

_Well, I'm being left, too, aren't I?_ The thought made her feel useless and childish, and she added mentally, with effort, _I'd just hold them back and put them at risk. Daphne's right. They'll be able to get in, find Sherry, and get out. Done. I probably won't have to wait more than twenty minutes…_ Not that any mission thus far had ever just been "done" with so little hassle.

"Leave the flash bomb, too," Daphne said, crouching beside the boy. "I've never managed to use one of those without blinding myself in the process."

"It might be nice to have if we get cornered by a large group of Hammerites," the boy said, picking up the metal sphere. "I think we should take it."

"Do _you_ know how to use one? Because if not, it's only going to help _them_ against _us._ Do you want to be blind _and_ trying to dodge a mallet? Because I sure don't!"

"Fine!" Otto grunted. "Leave the damn flashbomb."

"Don't be like that. The invisibility potions will be more use anyway, and can't backfire on us. It's a better choice in this situation."

"Sure. Fine. Leave it." Otto scowled and set the flash bomb down so hard in the _leave _pile that all Megan had time to do upon hearing the whining snap was clamp her eyes shut, and not even that was fast enough to completely block out the sudden brilliance that erupted from the device.

"Good job, Einstein!" Daphne growled from somewhere in the speckled darkness. Megan blinked and shook her head, waiting for the sparkles to clear. The sudden disorientation made her balance unsteady, and with a hand she reached out to stabilize herself against the wall.

The black spots turned foggy grey, and through it, she thought she could make out Otto's stumbling shape. "I didn't mean to! The stupid thing just went off!"

"Yeah, 'cause you slammed it onto the ground!"

"Well, you got your wish, okay? We're not taking it."

"No, you're right! We're taking the blindness instead!"

Megan took a step forward and felt something hard grate against her toe, and before she could stop herself, she fell forwards onto what felt at first like rocks, and then, with a little study, she realized were just some short steps. The cloak had crumpled well enough to cushion her knee a little as she landed, and after a quick mental survey, she was pretty sure she wasn't too badly scraped up.

There was a hand on her arm, and then Daphne was suddenly right beside her. "You okay?"

"Fine," Megan said, but then let out a little laugh. "Bunch of clever thieves we are, flash bombing ourselves before we even get started!"

"I didn't do it on _purpose_," Otto said, and she could finally make out the features of his face as he frowned at the two little piles of goods. Hers consisted of a slow-fall potion, a single invisibility potion, the apples, and one of the daggers.

The blade she picked up and withdrew from its narrow scabbard, turning it over to examine it. It was heavier than it looked like it should be from its slender shape, and the edge was so sharp, she nearly cut herself just turning it over.

"I don't know why we even brought those," Daphne said, nudging the other two daggers with the toe of her shoe. "We don't know how to use them, and even if we did, those Hammerites wear—like—four layers of sheet metal to protect them."

Otto rolled his eyes. "A knife can do more than just stab somebody, you know. And besides, just having it will make you feel less defenseless. Confidence can put off fear."

"I'm sure feeling confident right _now,_" Daphne muttered as they tucked their items back into their cloak pockets.

Daphne brushed off the dust that had collected on the dark fabric near her shoulder, and then swept clean—or nearly clean—the smudge that had stuck all along Otto's arm and around the back. Megan watched them with a twinge of envy. They looked like thieves, real thieves, with their hoods up. Daphne's grin took on a sinister shadowing beneath her cowl; Otto's scowl was so reminiscent of another familiar frown she blushed, shoved the knife back into its scabbard, and focused on attaching the leather scabbard to her belt.

Daphne turned in her getup, making the cloak fill and flutter with a snap of her wrist. "I feel more like a sorceress than a thief in this."

Megan shook her head. "It looks good. You look like Garrett."

"From a _reeeeeeally_ far distance," Daphne said with a giggle. "I'm sure he'd be flattered to hear you say so."

"There should be some abandoned shop carts just around the corner, if they haven't cleared them away yet," Otto said. "You can hide out there while we're gone."

Megan nodded and pulled herself to her feet. "Just show me where. I'll stay out of sight."

The cart Otto had in mind was almost within spitting distance of the cathedral churchyard. There were several carts, in fact, though only one was in good enough shape to even think about hiding inside. They were all half-rotted from exposure, but the one Otto picked for her was draped with coarse, sour-smelling canvas which seemed to have taken some of the environmental beating off the cart itself. Still, there was little fear of anyone rummaging around inside of it. Megan scrunched up her nose at the odor. It looked as if no one had even wanted to move it for months.

Moss, which had once probably been green now squishy brown and crawling with flies coated the valleys of the canvas tenting where the water from rain runoff gathered. There was no standing water now, thankfully, just stains, and the air inside the crumbling wooden shell was cold enough to thin out the stench. A trio of mice scuttled away as Megan crawled inside, the joints of the cart creaking in protest around her.

"Scoot in a little more," Otto said, muffled through the barrier. "Yeah. Like that. Now we can't see your feet or anything. Nobody'll know you're there."

Megan pulled herself in a little further, pulling herself closer to a crack in the wood frame through which she could smell a slight draft of fresh air and see the front doors of the cathedral. Somehow, being able to see the courtyard made her feel a little more useful, as if somehow she wasn't just going to be sitting this one out, but contributing through observing.

"Are you okay in there?" Daphne stuck her head down by the hole Megan had shimmied through. "We might be gone for a couple of hours, depending on how well-guarded it is…"

"I'll be fine," Megan said, and tried to smile convincingly. "Go on. I'll watch from here."

"Okay. Just remember, you've got that invisibility potion if you need to get away from here."

"Somehow, I bet you'll need yours more than I'll need mine, but yeah. I'll remember. And you be careful."

Daphne gave her a thumb's up and disappeared as she stood. Megan shifted to peer through the crack and watched as her two friends walked away from her. The high walls of the cathedral stood out dark and ominous against the last remnant of fading blue light in the sky. She glanced back down to eye-level as Otto's glyph flickered against a wall shadowed by stone pillars, and then, in the next moment, they were gone.

And she was alone.


	22. In Which Carefully Laid Plans Go Awry

Raife had hoped that as they progressed through the woods, it would become apparent that the two pagans were—in fact—leading him toward the fringe, but every step appeared to only lead him deeper into the dense undergrowth, the thicker foliage, the darker shadows. There was no glimpse of the moon or even a hint of faint starlight anywhere through the leaves overhead. The air had grown piercingly cold, but pulled close around him, as though he were being trailed by something enormous breathing damp, foggy breath across the back of his neck. More than one, the thief flinched and twisted around sharply, finding nothing.

The buzz of insects had strengthened with the depth of night, filling the void left by the hollow cries of birds which faded with the sunlight. The constant hum flooded his head with so much noise, even the snap of a broken twig beneath his feet made no impression on him. Branches groaned and rattled; somewhere in the darkness behind them, he swore he heard the crashing of a tree, though whether it fell or merely moved, he couldn't be sure. The two pagans were in no rush. Whenever he asked if the forest edge were much farther, they cast him narrow glares as chill and murderous as any of the back-street company he'd ever kept, and he didn't pretend to have kept upstanding citizens as friends.

They had passed into a dense and thorny thicket which from there on blanketed every inch of forest floor. Its multitudinous tiny spines pieced his clothes and sank their needles into his skin. The instant he stepped among them and felt the first lancing barb, his vision shivered and he bit back a gasp. Before his eyes, he was certain the brambles were shifting, moving, coiling towards him to bind and crush him. His stomach lurched, suddenly heavy as if filled with mud. Every breath he took he swore he breathed burning smoke; his mouth was dry, but he tasted blood, felt it seeping into his clothes, slicking his skin, making him gag. Blood. Blood, everywhere.

"Come now, pitiful thief," Pawsberry called out from somewhere in the dark ahead. Raife couldn't see him, even when he swore the forest was flickering with fire. "Don't tarry long. There are such terrible things in these woods, so very near, and we need you yet. Step lively."

Raife pulled his hood further over his face, hiding from the multitude of eyes he felt watching, watching, always watching, and placed his sweaty palm on the hilt of the largest dagger he carried on his belt. With a choked gasp for air, he forced himself forward, even as the brambles tugged at his legs, snared his feet, tripped him, made him stumble. He was making enough noise for any beast within a mile to hear him coming and set their traps, but that wasn't what made his face and the pits of his arms sopping wet. He could barely breathe. Invisible vines tightened around his chest, binding, crushing, killing him.

_It was Daphne._ He couldn't believe it. It seemed too impossible, too ridiculous. _That crazy, stupid, giggling girl—the one who called my name, attacked me, nearly killed me! And at the inn…When I'd told her Meg was there, when she looked like she was about to faint—it was _her!

His recollection cleared by hindsight. He could see something of her face through the willow-green skin, hear something of her voice tangled in the myriad voices screeching at him. There was no question now. None at all. _A pagan priestess!_ And she'd tried to kill him. That hadn't been a passing accident. That hadn't been like all the other times when he'd nearly died while in close proximity to her. He'd seen the burning hatred in her eyes, had felt her tighten her grip on him, driving her thorns deeper, skewering him alive. It was madness, sheer madness.

He drew himself inward and tugged the edges of his cloak tighter around him, as if anything could shield him from the prickly bushes. Already he could feel where blood—or maybe it was only sweat?—slicked his legs as the thorns shredded his skin. His escorts didn't seem bothered, despite walking barefoot. If he looked closely, he swore he saw—or felt, uncertain if his eyes betrayed him in the dark—the brambles pull away from them, clearing a path for them.

Pawsberry's laugh burst without warning, deep and gritty, and the thief almost jumped out of his skin. Both pagans had stopped in their tracks. The one he did not know pointed at a tree just a little to the left of them, downhill of where they now stood.

"Looksies you, creeperman! But for us lady's kindness, all manfools be killed them dead in these twisty, thorny woods. See you them, thiefie creature? Looks you high-!"

Raife felt his blood chill in his chest as his gaze lifted up from the trunk to its first branches. There, speared through, he saw three dangling bodies dressed in black. Whether they had screamed a silent scream in death, or even realized what was about to become of them, he doubted he wanted to know: pale moon-faced masks covered each of their faces.

_Enforcers._

"They followed you," Pawsberry muttered, frowning at the hanging dead. In the darkness from behind, his profile almost looked noble. He might have once been a lord's son, save for the disgusting state of his clothes and hygiene. "We thought they might be friends of yours."

Raife swallowed. "No friends of mine." The words barely escaped his throat.

The pale masks were turned toward him in their final moments, and his skin prickled as if they still watched him, screaming at him through the ceramic. Crusts of crimson blood edged the chin of the nearest mask. Flies and beetles buzzed about their heads, crawled across the pale surfaces in and out of the eye sockets; the masks seemed almost to move with life.

"A pity," Pawsberry replied, casting a narrow smirk over his shoulder. "Come. We should go before the trees decide we, too, are unwanted here."

It was the first thing Raife had heard all night with which he whole-heartedly agreed. Still, it was some time yet before he finally saw the distant lights of the city through the bars of tree trunks, and even then, some time winding along the cusp of the forest where the underbrush was thinner before they broke out across an untended and crumbling graveyard some distance from the prison cemetery he had entered the forest through earlier in the evening.

_They like moving among the dead,_ he thought as he avoided the sunken divots of the older graves and tried to keep up with the pagans' unflinching steps.

And then, at last, they were in the city streets. _His_ territory. These twists and turns he knew intimately; he knew how to roll his heels to muffle the sound of his tread. The way his own breathing echoed—diffused and coarse against the all-encompassing stonework—made the city seem as if it, too, were inhaling, exhaling. The lighted windows far above watched his movements, but their glowing gaze was benign.

His newfound confidence seemed to ease his captors, and they fell in behind him without remark, without sound. The canal's dank air purged the stink of their bodies. He took a deep breath and savored the faintest hint of brine, a sampling of the sea breezes at the docks that had somehow woven its way into the heart of the city. The silver moonlight cast only the barest glaze of illumination; the shadows were thick. Somewhere far away from them, a lone dog barked, its call soon returned by other howls and yips scattered across the cityscape.

_I could run._ The idea slipped into his mind without the slightest hesitation. _A few sharp twists, a quick turn or two, a dive into the canal. This part of town would be perfect. I've got some unreturned favors to call in, and a hiding place is the least I could ask for. They wouldn't turn me away._

But the thought of crushing, squeezing vines and the wrath of the woman in the woods made the thought considerably less desirable. The letter, now seemingly no more than harmless parchment, crinkled against his chest beneath the fabric of his shirt. All she wanted was the Eye—as he'd promised already—and a simple favor of delivery. The sooner he got them what they wanted, the sooner they'd leave him alone.

It wasn't certain, of course. They might kill him anyway. Upon retrieving the Eye, they could slit his throat or cast some pagan spell to silence him forever. He wasn't stupid, no matter what certain girls made him feel like at times, and he was certainly no fool. Survival was his game, and so far, he had always won. He would win again, or he would die. He was not above cheating, if it came to it.

_If I play my cards right, _he thought as he led them along the circuitous path he had mentally plotted to the old Mechanist seminary, _I'll get out of this a little richer, with my head still on my shoulders, and my professional reputation assured. No one will be able to deny that I did what the Master Thief would not, and succeeded. _

Every danger had its payoff, and this was a payoff if ever he'd set eyes on one.

_No one will be able to pretend I'm an amateur after this. No one will be able to say I don't know what I'm doing._

He could already feel the coins trickling through his fingers as his reputation brought him wealthier clients, willing to pay handsome fees for his services. What would he buy first? He'd needed a new cloak for months, and while the one he had now was fine for the summer while it was mild, he'd need something heavier come winter. And what about his daggers? Chipped and rusted, he spent most of his downtime trying to keep an edge on them. A new, polished set—perhaps even with a little artistry in silver molding along the hilts—would be most welcome. Food, of course, would be on the list. A nice evening out with ale and all the fixings he could stuff into his face: boar collar and game hen and pheasant and a leg of venison—all to himself!—maybe even a suckling pig and ale. So much ale. Mead and ale. But mostly ale.

And after that, maybe he'd take a little trip to the seedier side of town where the pretty ladies had been de-clawed so they couldn't hook him. Their kisses didn't mean anything. Their embraces were all the same. When they said they were glad to see him, he knew it was what they said to every man who walked into their room. They didn't mean a thing. Not a thing.

_I'm just so glad you're not dead-!_

When was the last time someone had cared enough to worry about him? Who was it last who threw her arms around him in relief because he was well and unharmed?

_Don't think about it. Don't you dare. _It made his neck itch, that eager, innocent voice crying out in his mind, and he did what he could to drown it with the sounds of future coins piling in his palms, of squealing, delighted laughter in dark perfumed quarters, of raucous bar songs roared in time with thumping mugs of ale.

It would be the life, while the money lasted. Not that he'd let himself go soft. What was a little vacation after all this death-defying work? Besides, when was the last time he'd indulged himself? He could barely remember what it was like to eat anything other than crusty, stale bread or scraps from the butcher's.

But not yet. The cool air lifted the hairs on his arms beneath his cloak and gave him a shiver of summer chill. It sharpened his night vision and reminded him that he wasn't—as the old codgers in the pubs always said—out of the woods yet. Especially not with two extensions of the woods keeping tight on his heels and watching his every move.

Get them the Eye, and get himself away. That was it, though he could feel their agitation growing.

"Where are you taking us?" Pawsberry growled when they paused at a shadowed corner to wait for a city patrol to pass further on ahead. The pagan's breath stank like sewage, and Raife nearly gagged, but confined his disgust in a wince. "How much farther?"

"Not far, another few blocks. Then down along the canal."

"Bees this no tricksiness, manfools," the other pagan hissed, "or tricksies you no more."

"Do you want the Eye or not?" Raife snapped under his breath. The sturdy rock and sweet, charged air beneath the buzzing streetlamps made him bolder.

Pawsberry's eyes narrowed. "Careful, thief. We are not your enemies. Yet."

Raife snorted, but swallowed back the next insult that rose to the tip of his tongue. Cockiness, like respect, was something you earned with skill and reputation.

The streets were empty now, even of the scavengers looking for handouts, though he knew the city guard must be lurking nearby. They were always nearby. But he saw and heard no one. Overhead, only the stars watched them as he slipped the padlock off the seminary doors and led the other two through the gate, into the shadows.

Raife let out a silent breath of relief the moment darkness fell over him. It was just as quiet inside as it had been before—more so, truly—and the depth of shadows protected them from even their own eyes. His two silent partners pushed themselves in behind him, casting weary glances first—as they emerged from the entry shadow—at the shattered, six-foot stain-glass cog on the seminary's prominent wall, and then at him. Pawsberry did not seem to appreciate the joke of the hiding spot.

"What kind of thing is this?" he hissed, and Raife felt the pagan grip his cloak at the shoulder.

"You wouldn't have searched here, would you?"

The suspicion in Pawsberry's eyes softened, slightly. "Fair enough." He let his grip fall. "Where is it?"

Raife swept his arm forward and gave them a shallow bow. "Follow me."

He led them along the strip of dead grass along the side of the metal pathway until they were forced to step onto the grated surface to pass through the wall leading to the back gardens and graveyards. Here, he heard—more than saw—each pagan draw a knife; shrouded in the darkness of the passage, Raife silently drew a blade of his own, leaving it carefully concealed beneath his cloak.

_Just in case,_ he told himself. His palms were sweaty against the leather of his gloves, and he could feel perspiration on the back of his neck, on his upper lip, and in the indents behind both nostrils. His fantasies of what a rich future might hold were quickly fading from his mind, replaced only by a firm desire to see the outside of the seminary again before the night was out.

When they came to the end of the passage, the chill air puffed against his damp face and sent a shiver to his toes. The dried tufts of overgrown weeds and bushes in the back gardens rustled in the shifting air. Otherwise, there was no sound besides their footsteps, first on metal grating, then padding softly onto the grass. The shadows hung thick as curtains along the walls of the seminary.

Around the crux of an outcropping of stone steps leading to a covered foyer, the hulking shape of the Karras servant still startled him with its sudden nearness. He couldn't hide a jump, and the pagans behind him let out a soft hiss of surprise, even fear, before they realized—as he had before—that the thing was no more than a lawn sculpture these days.

"It's here."

They kept their distance from the servant as he circled around to the furnace grate, knelt, and pried it open. He reached his arm into the thick pile of ashes, his fingers searching for the hard little knot of the bag he'd buried.

And kept searching. And searching. His hand swept back and forth, the pulse in his throat gradually speeding up, his breath snagging behind his teeth.

_It's not here._ The realization hit him so hard, he couldn't breathe for a moment. It wasn't there. He found the rough nubs of screw heads he'd felt before, felt the soft density of the ash, the light chips of leftover charred wood. But other than that, there was nothing. _Nothing!_

Pawsberry had come up behind him and stood very close. Raife was conscious of the knife in the pagan's hand, now not so very far from his throat, and fought back the urge to shrink away. "Well, thief? Let's not waste time."

Raife's mind, which had gone completely blank the moment he realized the Eye was not where he'd left it, now raced on lightning feet, running over every possibility that could have occurred between stashing his treasure and returning again. It had been dusk when he entered the forest. He couldn't have been gone more than an hour or two, though in the woods, it was hard to judge time.

_Someone must have seen me, followed me. _

With a sinking stomach, he thought of the trio of enforcers in the woods, the ones Pawsberry had said the trees had caught while they trailed him through the forest. _They must have seen me leave it here and taken it back to the Keepers. Those meddling _bastards!

He felt hollow, and very, very cold. But he wasn't dead yet. There was still time. He still had air in his lungs, still had blood in his veins, and the pagans weren't yet aware that anything was amiss.

_I'm going to have to kill them,_ he thought. _There's no other way. They'll try to kill me, and if they don't succeed, they'll run back to that woodsie woman and tell her, and then I'll be dead for sure. With them out of the way, I'll at least have a head start. I might be able to get out of the city before she can find me._

_ A spice ship to the Diamond Isles, maybe…_

His abdomen clenched tight as he took up a fistful of ash and rose to his feet.

_A mail wagon North, then…where? Not through the forests…_

Pawsberry eyed him wearily. "Well?"

Raife took a slight step back, ash from the robot's furnace drifting from his sleeve as he shook it free. Beneath his cloak, he tightened his grip on the dagger. "I've got it right here," he said. "Here. Take it."

Then he flung the fistful of ash into Pawsberry's face. The man made no sound, no yell, when the dust cloud hit him, but it went everywhere; into his eyes, up his nose, into his mouth, and as Pawsberry flinched backwards, Raife leapt forward, driving his knife up beneath the man's ribs, then tore it downward. Pawsberry howled then, his face white with ash, tears streaking paths down to his jaw, his claw-like hands trembling as he grabbed at his split stomach, blood and organs pressing outward between his fingers.

Raife twisted to get back, but the other pagan hit him like a fallen tree from behind and he felt something stab deep into his shoulder with a blinding flash of pain. He let out a shout and nearly bit his tongue. He hit the grass chest-first and all the air flew from his lungs. The pagan slammed down on top of him—his fingers scratching, grasping and his rancid breath gasping—and tore the knife free. Raife bellowed and flinched so violently that the pagan's weight upon him shifted just enough for him to wrench loose and scramble forward on hand and feet, his right arm dangling uselessly at his side.

He turned just in time to evade a second downward stab of the pagan's blade, but only by inches. A scrap of his cloak tore away on the tip of the blade. The pagan's face was smeared with blood, and in the darkness, the bulge of his eyes from his gaunt skull made him look demonic.

"Naughty tricksies-man!" the pagan hissed. "Gives up your sticky blood to the grass and flies!"

Raife jumped back, but tripped over a crumbled gravestone. The pagan was more sure-footed this time, and his blade swung down with an executioner's swiftness. Raife clamped his teeth, bracing for the cold bite of the blade into his throat and the first burst of his own hot blood.

Then time wavered. Far away, a voice shouted, and a flash of blue light erupted around them out of the darkness, drenching out the shadows and blinding them both. Then there was nothing but silence, and it wasn't until Raife realized he could open his eyes that he also realized he wasn't dead. The metal tip of the pagan's knife was poise inches from his throat, but remained frozen in place. The pagan himself was transfixed in the moment of the kill: his eyes wide and hungry, his lips pulled back from his rotting teeth in a wicked grimace of delight and hatred, his fist still clutched the fabric of the thief's cloak, holding him steady for his impending death. But the pagan did not move. Did not even blink.

The blue light had not completely faded, but Raife's eyes were readjusting to the darkness. There was something glowing on the pagan's side, and the glow from whatever it was cast just enough light for him to make out the movements of a shadowed figure just beyond his peripheral vision. He tried to turn his head, to prepare himself for yet another fight—whomever it was—but the pain in his shoulder gouged him as if it were cut to the spine, and made bile rise at the back of his throat. He fell back with a gasp, and the shadowed figure was upon him—not rushing at all, but with the casual confidence of one unafraid.

The dark cloak billowed in a sudden gust of the breeze. The night air lanced through the thief's thin clothes, his blood ran cold.

"Get back!" he shouted, but the soft voice only whispered wordlessly in response, and with another flash of blue, Raife's world went dark.

* * *

Matthew had always hated pagans, in the game and especially here in person, but the prisoner had to take the cake for the most disgusting pagan he'd ever encountered. The prisoner. The Abomination. The patchwork man. That's what he was, really. Patchwork. The puckered gashes ringing his arms, legs, and throat were healed, but even without blood oozing between the rotted stitches, it was still grotesque enough to make Matthew wish he'd skipped dinner before seeing him. The pagan's hair was cropped short, but not so short you couldn't tell it had once been long, thick, and matted like an unwashed dog's. His teeth, however, were strangely clean behind the cracked and bleeding lips. A scraggly beard covered most of the pagan's weatherworn cheeks.

The worst thing, though, wasn't the stitches or the dirt baked into every crack of his body, or even the stink of B.O. or piss or shit or rotting flesh; it was the way his head was ever so slightly off-center, as if whoever had sewn him back together had misaligned it so that even when his body was facing you dead-on, his chin was a little too far to the left. It had a nauseating effect on Matthew, and for a moment before he re-acclimated himself to the deformity once more, he felt the warm wine from dinner crawling back up his throat. He forced it down with a hard swallow.

The Abomination was a filthy, rotting, stinking mess of a man, but when he lifted his crooked chin to meet Matthew's gaze, his expression was like lightning and hellfire and the whirling screams of tornadoes. Matthew defined hatred now by the look in those wild eyes, and knew even his own paled in comparison.

"You have been defeated," the pagan said, and the aristocratic tone of his voice only made the filth of his current state sharper by contrast, and somehow more abhorrent. How did a wealthy man let himself fall so far? What kind of madness would lead him to this?

Matthew wasn't sure which—the pagan's wretchedness or the madness that had motivated him—disturbed him more. All he knew for certain was that if_ he'd_ been a rich aristocrat in this city, he sure as hell wouldn't have given it up for anything.

"Defeated," the pagan repeated in a voice a little louder, a little hoarser. "It is already too late for you to strike back. The end is nye upon you."

Matthew swirled the dregs of his spiced wine in his goblet and sighed. "If you're trying to scare me, it isn't working," he said, pleased by the boredom in his tone. "Defeat is still a mirage on your horizons."

The pagan was on his knees on the floor, where Prolan and another dungeon guard had thrust him when they brought him in, and now he shifted, as if he intended to stand or crawl closer. Prolan's boot settled on his back, shoved his head down toward the carpet weave. The pagan grunted, but kept his gaze fixed on Matthew. "My people have the Eye. It was the only thing left which they needed to secure your destruction, manfool. They have it now, and with it, your head. It's only a matter of time."

Matthew chuckled and nodded. "That was a good try, but you're still not scaring me. It's funny, actually. What you think is terrifying just seems lame to me. But I don't suppose you're accustomed to Romero, are you?"

The pagan squinted at him, and Matthew let his own smile grow. "No, of course not. Silly me. You don't even know what a gun is. Or a warhead. Or radiation poisoning." He chuckled again and shook his head, turning his back on the pagan so he could glare into the flames. The heat scorched his face. "You're a fool. Where I come from, there are more ways to die and to kill than you can even dream of. My head on a platter? Nice. Like the Romans never did that. Torn limb from limb? The Kings of England beat you to it. Hung? That's a nice, old-fashioned demise. Quaint, really.

"To be honest," he said, turning back again, suitably warmed, "the thing that always scared me most was a plane crash. Thirty-thousand feet of knowing what's coming, or—worse—just a sudden jolt, a massive flip, and everybody around you screaming because they know—just like you do—what's happening, and that there's no escape. Oh, I'm sorry. Do you even know what a plane is?"

"Know this," the pagan replied, "that when my people come for you, there will be no escape. And everyone around you _will_ be screaming, just as you described."

Matthew felt a twinge in his stomach. He scowled. "Talk all you like tonight. I want you to. I want to know every last thing in that cockeyed head of yours. And once you've told me everything there is to know about what you disgusting forest maggots are planning, maybe I'll spare you from the suffering and put you out of your misery. Maybe."

"Kill me, if you wish. It will not save you."

Prolan and the other guard were listening to every word, and Matthew could feel their sudden gazes upon him, hesitant, uncertain. _They _were scared, he realized. Every word this pagan shithead said to him was ringing in their ears, in their souls, and scaring the _bejezzus_ out of them. They really believed what he was saying; what was more, they were hearing _his_ filthy lies more than Matthew's own, and _that_ would not stand.

They were waiting for him to say something, to rebuke him. They needed to be reminded of who he said he was, of what he claimed to know, moreso than any other hammer-wielding zealot in this whole damned game, otherwise he might have a few more Artechs on his hands, and one was enough.

Matthew clenched his fists. They wanted him to rebuke this piece of shit pagan? That he could do.

"You still think you can frighten me," Matthew said, forcing himself to smile ever so slightly. He ran his tongue across the back of his teeth. "Abomination, nothing you or your heathen friends can do to me scares me more than what The Builder will do to me if I don't do everything in my power to stop you. You don't even know the beginning of fear. _I_ have looked into His very face and seen existence tearing itself apart at the seams. It was by his mercy alone that he spared me from complete and total madness."

He gritted his teeth and took a step closer so that the pagan had to crane his poorly stitched head nearly straight up. "But you, filthy wretched beast: you lap at the heels of an overblown Pan construction, while being too stupid to even understand that much. Have you ever beheld utter chaos? Has he ever let you see it? No. Because if he had, he'd need more than grubby stitches to hold you together. There are so many worlds in this universe that could eat you alive, and you don't even have the sense to know it."

"Prolan," he said, before the pagan could retort, "take this thing to the purification chambers. Bring Brother Barrius. He has a special knack for this kind of thing. I want to know everything he knows. The Eye, the plan—everything. And don't even think of coming to me until you've wrung every last detail out of his wretched skin. Leave him alive, but be creative. And tell Barrius to have some fun. Tonight, The Builder will taste a bit of His enemy's blood."

There was no denying the hunger in Prolan's eyes as he wrenched the pagan priest to his unstable feet and shoved him toward the door, muttering curses at him through sneering teeth. The other guard hurried after him to grab the pagan's free arm, as if there were any concern of his escape.

The door closed with a heavy thump behind them, but for some time, Matthew stayed still where he was, first listening to the footsteps receding down the stairs below him, and then to the low-chest rumbling, snapping, and settling of the fire. He thought about moving, about picking over the plates of food still sitting on the table beneath the stained glass windows, before going down to see his work-in-progress in the workshops, but something held him in place: a strange, tingling sense of being watched—and watched closely—had settled over him. It was not unlike the sensation of the pagan's glare, but it was not pagan eyes who watched him, but something else. Something quieter, something more secretive. It recalled to him memories of crouching in shadowed corners, lurking as armored city guards or pagan monsters crept past, clucking and hissing and sniffing, but missing him. But in this case, it was he who was doing the sniffing, trying to locate the phantom gaze.

He turned around so quickly, a slop of wine spilled down the knee of his acolytes robes and onto the carpet fibers. But there was no one, at least no one he could see. He took a moment to set the goblet aside on the table. Then he searched the room. In the shadowed book alcoves, behind and beneath the seats, beneath the bed in the corner; he even pressed his palms along the stone walls, searching by feel for a switch or a hole or a lever that might open into a secret passage from which someone might be watching.

But he found nothing. Nothing at all. Still, the feeling of being watched lingered. He thought for a moment of retrieving his wallet from where he'd hidden it inside the bed's mattress so that—just in case—he could be sure no one would find it. But if someone _was_ watching, he didn't want to give away its hiding spot, either. And something made him feel that too sudden a movement—a dive for the bed, perhaps—might set the hidden eyes rushing towards him.

He was not afraid, not yet, but it was unsettling. He forced himself to sigh and say aloud, "These damned pagans have me on edge." But nothing stirred, nothing so much as caught his eye.

With all the practiced patience of a fine actor, he turned his back once more on the hearth and dressed himself in the acolyte robes the priests had bestowed upon him. Then, with his hammer talisman swinging from his neck, he went out onto the stair landing, locking the door behind him, and descended to the floors below, fighting the urge to flee the eyes watching him—even now—through the walls.

* * *

It was the wind rattling against the wooden shutters, the hiss of clothing against fabric when he shifted, the throbbing heartbeat in his ears, and somewhere—far away, it seemed—the echo of distant voices that made Raife realize he was awake. He did not open his eyes, but lay listening to the sounds of his newfound consciousness; sometimes it was better to seem unaware. People often said more than they meant when they thought their voices fell on deaf ears.

But the longer he lay, the more certain he was that he was alone. The lack of resonance suggested he was in a small room, and it was too still, too inanimately still, for there to be anyone else inside with him. There was padding beneath him, and a heavy wool blanket draped over him. Beneath the covers, he was bootless, which was perhaps a good sign. If his captors intended to kill him, he doubted they'd try to make him comfortable. Unless…but no: he shifted his legs and felt no shackles around his ankles. His wrists were free, too, though his gloves were gone. His cloak, too. And his dagger belt. Not so good, after all.

He cracked one eye open just enough to peer through the lashes and took a quick survey of his surroundings. He was right about the room: it was small, judging only by the angles of the walls nearest him. He lay on a wooden framed bed near a window, which was boarded up. No light pierced the cracks along the edges, so it was either a tight seal or else it was still night. The walls were stone, but clean: no mildew, no dampness even. He took a breath and held it, dissecting the odors in the air: warm wool, sweat, a slight metallic undertone of blood—though that could have already been in his nostrils—and paper. A hint of leather—perhaps leather bindings? But the scent of musty paper was the strongest.

He opened his eyes fully and turned his head inward toward the rest of the room. A bookshelf stood against the wall at the foot of the bed, and a small desk sat where the bedside table ought to have been. The door across from him, wooden but smoothly polished, was closed. The small hearth on the far wall was cold, the ashes spread and no longer smoking. But the room itself was warm enough.

His attention caught on the voices in the distance, coming—he realized now—from the other side of the door. Where was this place? It wasn't a city guard holding cell; that he could have recognized by odor alone. It didn't seem like a pagan place; it was too devoid of plant life, or any life, besides himself. He saw no hammers decorating the walls, no tapestries for the Builder, and he doubted any Hammerite cathedral would have so secular a room.

He closed his eyes again and tried to think. One moment, he'd been almost stabbed to death by an outraged pagan, and the next-? A flash of blue, and then nothing.

A flash of blue.

Blue… Glyphs… Keepers.

_Damn._

That had to be it. Keepers. Enforcers. The three dead in the forest sprang instantly to mind, their pale masks turned towards him, the blood crusted at the rims of their hollow eye sockets.

Raife shivered. _Those weren't my fault. I didn't even know they were following me._ Somehow he doubted anyone here would care much for the details of his innocence.

But he wasn't dead yet, and they'd gone to the trouble of making him comfortable. It would have been easy enough to zap him right then and there, take out both himself and the crazed pagan in one quick blast and be done with it. But he was alive, bootless, gloveless, and undisturbed. He wasn't used to prisoners being treated so humanely, and he wasn't sure he preferred it to the rough handling of the city guard or the other zealous sects of the city. At least when you were roughed up a bit, punishment—or the intent to punish—didn't come as a surprise. In this place, he had no idea what to expect next. It made him nervous.

_First things first,_ he thought as he sat up. _Check the door. If it's locked, I'm a prisoner. If not, then all I have to do is find my things and let myself out._

He slipped out of bed and made his way to the door as silent as a shadow. The handle clicked like it might open when he gripped it, but a few quick tugs and shoves did nothing to budge it.

_Prisoner, then. Okay. Now: my things._

A cursory glance around the room turned up his boots, gloves, and cloak on a trunk at the foot of the bed. The dagger belt was not among them, nor in the trunk beneath them, nor anywhere he could find.

He had just put on his boots when he heard footsteps. A moment later, the door swung inward to admit a clean-shaven, bald-headed man in Keeper robes and an acolyte of some kind carrying a tray of food.

"Ah, good. You're up," the Keeper said as the boy placed the tray on the bedside table and then quickly departed, leaving them alone. The calm assurance of his voice had an effect as strong as a soothing glyph. "How are your injuries? Healed well?"

In truth, Raife had forgotten he'd been injured at all, but the memory of the pagan's knife driving into his shoulder made him flinch and reach instinctively for the lacerated wound. The tear in his shirt remained, but the skin beneath had somehow knitted itself back together. It wasn't even tender to the touch anymore. If he'd had other bruises, he couldn't remember their locations well enough to check. At any rate, they didn't hurt him anymore.

"I'm glad I came across you when I did," the Keeper said. "This city is a dangerous place for you at the moment. You've made some people very angry."

Raife clenched his jaw, but kept his mouth shut. Of course they knew he'd stolen the Eye. They probably already had it in some vault of theirs hidden away, sealed up tight. If they knew about the Enforcers in the woods, he was sure he'd be dead already, and if they didn't know, he sure as hell wasn't about to break it to them.

A slight smile quirked the man's lips for a moment, and he seemed about to speak on a lighter note. But just then, a cloud of concern passed across his features, bringing with it a hint of urgency. "Are Megan and Daphne all right?"

Raife prickled and clamped his teeth. _Of course._ "I don't know who you're talking about."

The Keeper frowned. "We Keepers," he said, his gentle voice taking on a harder edge, "make it our business to know things, and we know you are the one they went to find on Northermeed Island. I realize thieves build their lives on the spines of their lies, but this is not the time for such games. Did they find you there?" The hard edge softened, but the urgency remained. "Have you seen them since? Are they all right?"

_Why does _he_ want to know?_ Raife was quickly tiring of the feeling that there were a thousand plots revolving around him, their various motives and end-goals mysterious and hidden. Who to trust was becoming less clear with each passing hour. But if he never understood another thing ever again, he knew silence—at least—was a safe path to follow. If things got rougher, if the Keeper pushed or threatened, he could reveal what he liked, but until then, his lips would stay sealed.

Something of this unspoken decision must have been visible on his face as he sat down on the side of the bed, for the Keeper let out a huff of a sigh. His jaw moved behind closed lips, as if he intended to press the issue, but was fighting himself. Then, after a moment, he pushed the calm back to the surface and nodded.

"I understand your reluctance to speak with me," he said. "You don't even know my name, or if I'm trustworthy, and given your recent experiences, you have every right to be suspicious. Let me talk instead. Perhaps you will see that we're both on the same side."

He took a step towards the bedside desk, paused, and turned to face Raife again. "My name is Artemus. Garrett introduced me to your friend Megan when she first arrived here, talking about a game and how she was not from this world." Raife couldn't help but snort. He could imagine in all too well. "You're familiar with this, then?"

Raife shrugged, but kept his mouth shut.

The Keeper's slight smile returned, but there was a hint of condescension in it that the thief didn't like. "Strange changes are happening all over the city. The Keepers believe everything that has happened is related, and that both Megan and Daphne are but one piece of a much more complicated puzzle."

"You don't say." Raife let his own sneer tug at his lips. "I'm not all that interested in your conspiracies or prophecies. You want to talk? Okay. Let's talk about this: You took something from me that I'd really like to get back. Those pagans weren't trying to kill me for nothing, and I don't appreciate being made to look like a fool."

The smile faded as the man tilted his head slightly. "Took something from you?"

Raife rolled his eyes. "Don't play dumb with me. It was right in that Karras servant, tucked away just where I hid it. No one could have known it was there unless they followed me, so let's cut to the point: where's the Eye?"

The Keeper watched him for a moment, puzzlement moving to some unspoken clarity in his expression. "You don't know where it is."

"You made pretty sure I wouldn't." Raife gritted his teeth and stood. He was taller than this man, though not by much. "You stole it from me, you sneaky bastard, and I've had just about enough of this. You're not kidding when you say I've got some pretty angry folks out looking for me, and I'd really like to get them off my tail. So where is it?"

The Keeper, to his credit, held his ground even when Raife moved closer. "I'm sorry," he said, that soothing voice returning. "We assumed you'd already given it to the pagans."

"If I'd already given it to the pagans, they wouldn't have been trying to kill me, would they?" It sounded less certain when he said it aloud. "If I'd already given it to them, I'd have been paid, and have been free and clear by now. I sure wouldn't have had to be saved from a pair of vine-happy madmen by the likes of you. Those two were the least of my worries if I don't hold up my end of the deal."

At this, the Keeper's guard dropped, and he chuckled—actually chuckled—and shook his head. "Truer words may never have been spoken. Even unintentionally," he said. His teeth were perfectly white and straight. "But I wouldn't concern myself about the pagans, if I were you. It's Garrett you should be worried about."


End file.
